


Armored in Faith, Bound by Duty

by TCRegan



Series: Soldiers of the Wasteland [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate History, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 94,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Centuries ago, a schism in the Chantry splintered the Templar Order. Those that seceded formed the Church of Andraste, a new faction that treated their duty to the Maker and their mages with a different hand.</p><p>Fenris, a former Tevinter slave, finds himself in need of a safe haven from his old master. After being aided by Crusader Hawke and his mage sister Bethany, Fenris seizes the opportunity to join the Order. </p><p>But Ferelden has suffered a Blight. There's much work to be done to rebuild the country, and whispers of a darker threat on the horizon threaten to shatter the tenuous peace of Thedas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The silence in the room was broken only by the crackling of the fire. He shivered, his skin pebbling with goose bumps, and he drew the cloak a bit more tightly around himself. Mid-winter in Ferelden was harsh, not what Fenris was used to at all. In Tevinter, the winters brought only cooling rains and a light breeze. Not that he often saw the outside, or even the country. Minrathous was a bustling, busy, and dirty city and they often traveled in a covered carriage. And the magisters usually sent their slaves to do their shopping, forcing them into the dull errands they thought themselves too good for. Fenris had not technically been a slave the last few years, but on paper he was, and always would be. At least until Danarius gave him his freedom or called off the chase entirely. That was not likely to happen, he knew. His only chance at freedom was in this office, with the man sitting across from him.

Of course he'd known very few others like himself, men or elves trained to be bodyguards. Those in the Tevinter Imperium were unlike those in the rest of Thedas. Mages needing bodyguards in Minrathous was almost laughable. At least when it came to the templars. But what chance did a bodyguard like him have against some of the most powerful magisters in Tevinter? The Imperium didn't hold with the Church of Andraste. It didn't follow the path of the Crusader. You were either in the Circle, or you were not. But mages in Tevinter were free, they ruled. There was no need for this relatively new faction of warriors. And when Fenris had been caught by the Tevinter soldiers Danarius sent after him, he knew there would have been no way to escape without their help. He owed them a debt.

More accurately, he owed the man called Hawke a debt. He and his sister. A mage. While he could think of only a handful of things worse than being indebted to a mage, joining the noble Order of the Crusaders was not one of them. It meant steady pay, a warm bed, protection from the magisters should Danarius come to call. And if he didn't like it, he could simply leave and move on, spending the rest of his life on the run, or find other allies to help him cut down Danarius so he could find some peace. He was tired of running. Three years he'd been dodging hunters. But the man across from him held a promise of something better than that.

Commander Greagoir shuffled papers, making marks in ink with a metal-tipped pen. It was a dwarven invention, something Fenris had seen Danarius use quite regularly. Inn and shopkeepers tended to use poorly carved feather quills. Not that Fenris could read anything that was being written. A slave, a bodyguard, had no need to learn how to read. He was trained to wield a sword with precision, to throw knives, and could shoot a bow with almost deadly accuracy. If pressed, in physical combat he could down a man twice his size, and even knock sturdy dwarves from their feet. But it was the lyrium embedded in his skin that set him apart from others.

"I read the report here from Hawke," Greagoir said, pulling a folded piece of paper from the pile on his desk. "He said that you were ambushed by a company of slavers. He and his sister aided you in your escape. He talks of your unusual abilities. Care to demonstrate?" He looked up, eyebrow raised, waiting.

Fenris bristled. He didn't truly want to demonstrate anything, especially the brandings in his skin. However, he understood that in order to prove himself worth the trouble of being safely ensconced in the Church of Andraste's Circle, he would have to show extraordinary ability. He stood, removing his cloak, dressed in a sleeveless jerkin and leggings. His armor remained off, dropped at the door along with his sword. He had been reluctant to leave it, but Hawke who was waiting just outside the door with his sister, promised it would be fine.

Taking a breath, he activated the lyrium brandings, a surge of magical energy flowing through his skin and muscles. He stretched out his arms, making a show of it for Greagoir's sake, then deftly cleaved through the chair he'd been sitting on like a hot knife through butter. The markings dulled, then faded, and he looked at Greagoir, whose expression was that of mild fascination. Fenris toed the splinters of wood, frowning a bit before settling in a second chair. He leaned over and plucked his cloak from the wreckage and wrapped it once again around himself.

"That-" Greagoir started, clearing his throat. "That was… well."

"I can do the same to a man," Fenris said, his tone quiet and even. "The markings allow me to phase through almost any physical object."

"…A gruesome talent, no doubt. How did you come by the tattoos?"

Fenris frowned, and kept his eyes lowered. "My master, Danarius," he said, the name tasting sour on his tongue, "decided to gift me with them." He refrained from telling Greagoir what he told Hawke. That the pain from the markings or perhaps the ritual itself wiped all memories from his mind. His life had been nothing but Danarius, Minrathous, and the Fog Warriors. And that story was not one he planned on telling anyone anytime soon. 

"I see. Well. We're taking an awfully large risk, but I don't hold with slavery. No doubt you've heard of the terrible business in Denerim concerning that."

"Mm."

Fenris had not. The Blight hadn't affected him the way it had others. He heard Hawke talk about it on their trip to the Bannorn, where the Church of Andraste Circle had been temporarily relocated. He had heard whisperings of the archdemon appearing, the influx of Ferelden refugees in other cities as they fled their country. He'd had a brief stay in the Free Marches before deciding that between the Blight and Danarius, he would choose the Blight. No doubt it would be easier to hide in Ferelden and he doubted Danarius would follow him to some backwater country. How wrong he was.

He'd just made land in some northern Fereldan port city when the hunters caught up with him. That's when Hawke, who was there on business, decided to step in. Fenris still wasn't sure what made him do it, why Hawke was seemingly interested in helping a random passerby who was in trouble. His sister appeared to be the same, a mage who fought with her brother without thought of coin or recompense. It gave Fenris pause. She was not like the other mages he knew. She was friendly and sweet. Empathetic to a fault, almost.

"Ferelden's still rebuilding," Greagoir continued, oblivious of the fact that Fenris hadn't truly responded. "We lost our Circle near Lothering. Got a lot of us," he said, frowning. "What do you know about the Church of Andraste? Our Order hasn't reached Tevinter yet."

Fenris thought that was a very hopeful statement. He'd heard Danarius talk to other magisters, mocking the Church. The Chantry would never allow it, not in Tevinter. Their templars were too well-collared. There was no need for a separate sect that would give mages even more power. He frowned a bit as he contemplated his answer.

"I only know of the holy war from centuries ago. That the Chantry was in a disagreement…"

Greagoir huffed. "Well, I'm sure there's time enough for you to learn our ways. This isn't Tevinter, boy," he said.

Fenris clenched his fists, hidden by his cloak. On some level he knew that the word wasn't meant to be offensive. That to Greagoir, with his age and status, Fenris was in fact a mere boy. However, he couldn't help the annoyance he felt at being addressed in such a way. Even if he was just a slave, the magisters of Tevinter, Danarius's guests, feared him for his looks, his talent. It was something he had been proud of, something that made Danarius proud of him. It disgusted him now to think of how he used to crave his master's affections and approval.

"We'll find you a suitable partner."

"Partner?"

"You've met Hawke, so I'll use him as an example. Though I'm hesitant to do so, considering he's…" Greagoir let out a breath. "Not particularly good at following orders," he finished. "Bloody lucky he gets the job done so well otherwise… Well. Not the time or place. Hawke is one of my men, as will you be once we train you up. Send you on some easier errands. Crusaders don't go anywhere without their mages, mages don't go anywhere without their Crusaders. You're a partnership, one that's worked well for years. We take a leaf from the Grey Wardens and how they organize themselves. If a system works and everyone's happy, no need to change it, right?"

Fenris frowned. Oftentimes when a system didn't work, those who wanted change were the ones who weren't heard. The ones that were content, often the ones running the show, would simply hem and haw and make excuses. He'd seen it far too often.

"That's not to say we don't receive complaints," Greagoir added, seeing the look on his face. He patted a large stack of papers on his desk. "The First Enchanter and I get these weekly. Pain in the ass to look into every charge, but if we didn't, we'd be no better than Templar Order. The whole reason the Circle broke up was to expose and end the corruption. But I'll let your partner educate you on the history. You're a bit of a special case," he continued. "Normally we take templars who already know of us and our ways. And you're the first from Tevinter we've ever probably had. Have quite a large Circle in Orlais and one in the Free Marches. Looking to expand though."

Fenris wondered if Greagoir spoke to hear the sound of his own voice. History had always fascinated Fenris, but this was nothing more than the incessant prattling of a man with too much pride. Perhaps his partner – the mage – would be able to fill in the pertinent details. Though he wasn't sure that was a thought he was looking forward to. Maybe whomever he was assigned would be like Bethany.

"Well. I'll put your name along with the other recruits. There's work here, and you'll report for duty in the morning in the commons. Hawke can give you a tour since he's back now for a week before their next assignment. With any luck we'll have a partner for you sooner than later. Too many things to do in Ferelden at the moment and not enough hands with which to do them. If anyone gives you a hard time about those markings, just come to me and I'll set them straight." He stood, shuffling some papers before handing one to Fenris. "Give that to the residential advisor. Hawke can show you the way. You'll be assigned a room. Might have to share with a couple others before we can find you a mage, then you'll share quarters with them."

"Er. Sharing quarters?"

Greagoir scratched idly at his beard before crossing his arms. "Most Crusaders like to stay close to their mages and vice versa. In our old Circle we had more room. Afforded the opportunity to have your own little apartments. But here unfortunately we're pressed for space. We're just lucky we _have_ space and that it's not Kinloch Hold. The Chantry's Circle," he clarified when Fenris raised an eyebrow. "We took it to a vote and most of our mages and our Crusaders stated they'd rather sleep in the mud and the shit and the freezing cold than head back there." He let out a short, barking laugh. "Shows you how backwards the Chantry has it. Anyway. Hawke!"

The door opened and Hawke stepped in, his sister slightly behind him, looking hopefully at Fenris.

"Commander?" Hawke asked curiously.

"Show Fenris to the dorms so we can find him a place to stay for now. I'll speak with the First Enchanter about getting him matched as quickly as possible. Also, give him a tour. Make it thorough. You're heading to Denerim in a week. King Alistair's requested our aid for rebuilding and protection."

Hawke nodded, then looked to Fenris who stood, paper in hand. He looked at it, but couldn't make out any of the inky lines and dots. He followed Hawke out, picking up his armor and sword. Hawke clapped him on the shoulder and he winced, anticipating the pain that accompanied touch, but it never came.

"So you're staying with us?" Bethany asked hopefully.

He looked at her. She was the same height as him, which was comforting in a way. As an elf he always had to look up at everyone. Hawke was a head taller and much broader than anyone he'd met. A true warrior in every sense of the word. He frowned but nodded at Bethany.

"Excellent!" she said, clapping her hands together. "Perhaps when they assign you a partner you'll go on assignments with us." She looked up at Hawke. "I can talk to the First Enchanter about it."

Hawke grinned, reaching out to tug on a strand of her hair. "I'm sure Irving would say yes. He's wrapped around your finger."

She rolled her eyes and looked at Fenris. "That's really not true."

Fenris pursed his lips, nodding a little. Despite the few days it took to travel to the Church of Andraste Circle, he still wasn't sure where he stood with either Hawke or his sister. They seemed amiable enough, companionable. And again, he found himself wondering why they took the time to help him. They hadn't asked for anything in return, and Fenris wasn't used to that. He offered them what little coin he had – a handful of coppers – and Hawke all but shoved the leather purse back at him.

"Well, these are the commons," Hawke said, stopping at the doorway of a large hall.

Fenris looked in. About a dozen people were milling about, carrying plates of food, sitting at the large long tables. Along the wall was a sort of rudimentary cafeteria style buffet and on the far wall, two large, heavy wooden doors bordered by tapestries. Fenris had seen the sigil walking through the halls, a cream colored background with a howling brown dog, three black stars above. It was a pleasant change from Tevinter, most of their banners depicting dragons in various styles. It was another reminder that he was no longer controlled by his master.

"We haven't been here long," Hawke explained, "maybe a year and a half. We came in the summer; the doors would be open all the time. There's a really big courtyard we use for sparring. You'll probably get some templar training if you haven't had any yet. Standard stuff. Cleanses, silences. My personal favorite, the holy smite."

"Don't ever use them on your partner though," Bethany said warningly. "Unless you're sparring."

"Why is that?"

"It's a good way to piss them off," Hawke said, grinning, wrapping an arm around Bethany's shoulders. "Carver did that once, remember?"

Bethany nodded. "Jowan was so angry he couldn't cast." She giggled. "So he threw a tome of Advanced Enchantments at him."

Hawke was laughing now. "The book, no lie, Fenris, was this big," he said, holding his hands apart almost a foot in length.

Fenris, who'd seen many large books and knew how heavy they could be, highly doubted the size of the book. Or perhaps this mage Jowan was physically stronger than the mages he was familiar with. When one could control the elements and force your adversary into unbelievable pain and nightmarish visions, why would one need physical strength? 

"What happened?" he asked, because Hawke looked like he was waiting for a response.

Hawke shrugged. "Oh, Carver got a black eye. They fought a bit more and had to be broken up."

Bethany's smile faded a little. "Justice was so angry."

"Justice?" Fenris asked.

Hawke shook his head. "He was a damned good Crusader."

"Oh." The use of the past tense left little to wonder why they'd suddenly fallen melancholic. "I'm sorry."

Hawke shrugged, dragging a hand through his hair. "It's fine. Try not to mention it though. He was a real hero around here. Died a warrior's death, fighting by the king's side. Well. Alistair wasn't the king then, just a Grey Warden."

Bethany hit him on the arm. "Don't say it like that. 'Just a Grey Warden.' Grey Wardens are highly respected!" She looked at Fenris. "When we go to Denerim, if you can come with us you may get to meet him. Though I'd rather go help further south…"

Hawke ruffled her hair. "Lothering's lost. It'll take years or more before anything grows on that soil again." He looked at Fenris. "They're pushing to expand the farming here in the Bannorn. A lot of farmland was lost to the Blight. The soil's corrupted. Unfortunately," he sighed, "as there really are only a handful of Grey Wardens left in Ferelden now, most of them Orlesian. There hasn't been time for them to go down to look. When they do, I'm sure Cousland will take a bunch of us with him."

"Cousland?"

"Aedan Cousland," Hawke said. "He was the other Warden who helped kill the archdemon. He's Alistair's best friend. Kind of a dour guy."

Bethany nodded. "He's been through a lot though. He lost most of his family."

"From the Blight?" Fenris asked. It did seem to be the source of the majority of Ferelden's problems.

She shook her head. "Arl Rendon Howe. He was tried for war crimes posthumously. Found guilty. His lands were given to Cousland's older brother."

Hawke flexed his fingers, curling them into a fist. "If some bastard murdered my family, I would have killed him too."

"Cousland… murdered Howe?" 

Fenris normally found politics quite boring. In Minrathous a lot of it centered on the slave trade and the lyrium markets. Here, it seemed to be so much more. He figured the Blight provided for seditious opportunities and wondered how deeply the corruption went, or if they'd rooted out the problems. Ferelden itself was only a fledgling kingdom, especially in comparison to Tevinter. While it likely hadn't reached the point that the Imperium or Orlais had, given time, Ferelden would be a cesspit of people vying for power or wealth just like any other country in Thedas if it wasn't already.

"So they say," Hawke said darkly. "There were only three people that were there when it happened. King Alistair, who swears up and down that Howe attacked them first and it was self-defense, a mage who shows no record of being in any Circle and disappeared shortly after the archdemon was killed, and an Antivan Crow who corroborates the story. Of course, the elf _is_ sleeping with Cousland, so he would say that."

Bethany jabbed him in the ribs. "Garrett! That's just gossip," she said, looking Fenris.

Hawke massaged his ribs, scowling. "Even if it was true, it's not like it would cause a scandal. He's the second son, not like he needs to worry about carrying on the name or anything. Besides, Grey Wardens never take brides. Why shouldn't he get a little on the side?"

Bethany sighed. "I swear. You're as bad as Carver."

"Who is Carver?" Fenris asked. It was the second time they'd mentioned him. "A Crusader, but…"

"My twin brother," Bethany said. "He's at Redcliffe right now with Jowan. They're helping train the militia there and fortifying defenses while Denerim's being rebuilt. The crown lost a lot of soldiers." She frowned, hands twisting together a little, and Fenris noticed how Hawke touched her shoulder to comfort her.

"Your twin? May I ask why he's not your Crusader?" he asked, in hopes of distracting her.

Bethany and Hawke exchanged a look, and Fenris found himself wishing he hadn't asked.

"Of course if it's too personal," he added, trying to be polite. They were friendly enough with him, and while he wasn't used to this type of courtesy from anyone let alone humans, it was not unwanted. So long as they didn't try to touch him, he found their company somewhat pleasant.

"No, it's fine," Hawke said. "My father's decision. He wanted me to look after her. He was a mage in the Church's Circle too. Kirkwall. He met my mother who was a noble there. Her father - our grandfather - was pretty outraged when she ran off to marry him. You see, there's no law in the Church's Circle that says mages can't get married. Some are even married to their Crusaders." He shrugged. "It's a strong bond. My father's Crusader was a man named Maurevar Carver. He kept both my mother and father safe. Trained my mother in the ways of the Church. Died keeping them alive. And when my father reported for reassignment, my mother demanded to be trained and tested. So she took over as his Crusader."

"Your… mother was your father's Crusader?" This was confusing to Fenris, who admittedly hadn't seen many warriors in Tevinter at all. Of course there were female magisters, but it was largely a patriarchal society. He had a hard time imagining a woman in plate metal, ready to fight.

"She was," Hawke said proudly. "My dad, he wanted my sister protected, so he enrolled me in the Church soon as she showed signs of magic. Carver was too young, so I was in charge. He's a little bitter."

"I can imagine," Fenris said quietly.

Bethany frowned. "You can't blame him for that. He always wanted to be a Crusader like Mother."

Hawke shrugged. "When Father died a few years ago, she returned to Kirkwall to help train others. I doubt she'll ever take on another mage. Father was everything to her."

Fenris shifted uncomfortably. "Sorry for your loss."

Hawke waved a hand. "Don't be. There wasn't anything anyone could've done. We had the best healers look at him. It was… well, it still hurts to think about it, but he's not suffering anymore. And Mother writes every month and we see her at Wintersend. We didn't lose anyone in the Blight, which is more than we can say for a lot of people."

Fenris nodded. "That is good, then."

He followed them up a large stone staircase and down a long corridor. Hawke gave a perfunctory knock on the door at the end before opening it and heading in. A tired looking woman glanced up, waving them inside.

"This is Fenris," Hawke said. "He needs a room assignment until he gets a mage."

Fenris stayed quiet as the woman checked her notes, scribbled something, then handed Hawke a piece of paper and a key. He thanked her and they headed out once more, Hawke handing the key to Fenris.

"Privacy is very important. Even though we're technically a barracks, one of the things that sets us apart from the Chantry's Circle is that all the doors have locks. Unfortunately we're crammed in with no extra space until we can rebuild our Circle. This is you," he said, trying the door.

It opened, and Fenris huffed a little. He'd had his own space in Danarius's mansion, though there were no locks. Slaves weren't afforded that much privacy. Inside, the room was devoid of its other occupants. Two bunk beds and a cot were crammed into the space, leaving only enough room for a cedar chest and a rickety looking table.

"Must all be down at the commons," Hawke said. "Or on patrol. Well, the quicker they assign you to a mage, the quicker you'll have more space."

Fenris stepped in, setting his things on the cot, which appeared to be the only unoccupied bed. Even if it wasn't permanent, anywhere was better than with Danarius. "Thank you," he said, looking at them.

Bethany smiled. "You'll get settled in quick enough."

"How about the rest of the tour, then?" Hawke asked, inclining his head. "Don't worry about your stuff," he added. "Everyone has their own armor and blades. You might have to wait on your Crusader digs though," he added. "Real fancy armor. There's a troupe heading to Ostagar in a few weeks to scavenge the metal that was lost, but we can't really afford custom stuff right now. Besides, I don't think anyone here would fit yours."

"Are there no elves in the Crusaders?" Fenris asked, slightly concerned.

Hawke frowned. "Not many."

"Not because of racism or anything," Bethany was quick to add. "Most of the Crusaders come from templar recruits who want to leave the Chantry's Circles. They're not really fond of elves, so… A lot of ours come from the alienage in Denerim."

"I see." It was irritating to think of it. Elves were subjugated no matter where they were. But the Church's Circle was sounding more like the Grey Wardens with every explanation. "How is it that the Chantry approves of this? How do they differentiate between Chantry Circle mages and the Church's?"

"Well we don't brand them or anything," Hawke said, and Bethany glared at him. "What? We don't."

"Insensitive." She shook her head and held out her hand to Fenris. A silver ring with fancy markings around it adorned her finger. "Some get amulets or bracelets. I opted for the ring. There's a dwarven enchanter who makes them. The Church and our Crusaders keep track of us through them with a matching one."

Hawke pointed to his right earlobe. Fenris saw a large silver stud with the same markings on Bethany's ring.

"So… jewelry."

"Nearly indestructible," Hawke said. "Sandal – that's the enchanter – he's damn brilliant. Once you get yours, you'll see how it works. It's hard to explain."

"Can't the mages simply take them off and throw them away?" Fenris asked.

Bethany frowned. "They can. Some do. They're given three strikes before they go back to the Chantry Circle. Not… not many do that."

Hawke touched her shoulder. "The Chantry tends to make the runaways Tranquil. Greagoir and Irving do their best though. The first infraction's met with a month's punishment for both mage and Crusader."

"Punishment for a month?" Fenris asked, frowning. He'd seen slaves beaten bloody for trying to escape. He wondered what punishment could last so long without permanent disfigurement or death.

"Peeling potatoes," Hawke said. "Cleaning chamber pots. Servant stuff. No field assignments. They're given a quick taste of what life in the Chantry's Circle could be. Usually it only takes one punishment before they realize this life is better. Plus everything's taken care of. Food, clothing, shelter. Could be so much worse. Better than the army, better even than the Grey Wardens. What?" he asked, looking at Bethany, who was scowling a bit. "There are some things King Alistair tells me about his past that he doesn't tell you, you know."

"You know the king personally?" Fenris asked. He was used to magisters throwing around their weight to appear more impressive. Danarius had always seen through the act, and because of that, Fenris learned to as well. Hawke was arrogant, but he didn't seem to be trying to impress him.

Hawke shrugged modestly. "We did a little fighting together. I'm not as close to him as say… Anders is."

"Anders?"

"He was with him when they killed the archdemon. When… when Justice died." Hawke cleared his throat.

Fenris had a feeling there was more to the story, but he didn't press. It wasn't his place to impose upon those who were grieving. "Mm."

"He's teaching for now. Anders," Bethany said, changing the subject. "He's never been an enchanter before. They put him in charge of the younger apprentices."

"I haven't seen him in a while," Hawke admitted. "Since we've been on assignment. Maybe we'll run into him."

Fenris listened as they talked, explaining how the Circle here worked compared to the Chantry. He wasn't sure how smart it was to give mages that much freedom. And he still wasn't completely clear on how the linked jewelry worked. Surely there were mages that escaped both Circles completely and were apostates? Being transferred from the Chantry's Circle to this one seemed only to afford more opportunity to escape. But the system apparently had worked for over two centuries now. And Bethany seemed satisfied with her situation. Did other mages feel the same? Perhaps it was more effective than the Circle he was familiar with.

He took supper with them in the commons, listening to them talk and joke with other Crusaders and their mages, smiling tight-lipped when they introduced him. They seemed to be happy, or at least content. It reminded Fenris more of the participants in the Provings in Minrathous. Gladiatorial sparring matches which took place seasonally. The fighters that were paired with their mages often worked together flawlessly. Of course, Fenris being a bodyguard simply kept Danarius safe from others without Danarius's input at all. The magister could easily flatten a whole city street and yet he was content to let Fenris deal with any threats.

Perhaps it wasn't the best comparison. No, what they really reminded him of were the Fog Warriors. Scowling, he pushed _that_ thought from his mind and stood. "Thank you for this evening," he said cordially. "I shall take my leave."

"Sure," Hawke said easily. "You need anything? The library's a floor up if you wanted to take out a few books, just write your name and the title in the ledger. Otherwise I'm sure this'll break out into a card game soon."

"No," Fenris replied, thinking he would likely never visit the library, all things considered. "Thank you. I am fine."

"All right," Hawke said, leaning back in his chair, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before letting out a belch.

Several of the other Crusaders cheered, while Bethany admonished him.

"Seriously, Garrett."

Hawke grinned, then winked at Fenris. "I'll collect you tomorrow for training. It's all staggered since the Blight kind of threw a wrench into the works. But I've seen you fight. I doubt it'll be long before you're out on assignment." He let his chair fall to the ground with a clatter and reached out his hand. "Welcome aboard and all that."

Fenris shook it, nodded to Bethany, and left for his room. The door was unlocked yet again, and Fenris idly wondered if the key would ever be of use, not that he truly minded. He tucked his armor and sword, which he was pleased to see were untouched, under his cot and laid down. Tomorrow he'd begin training, one step in a long succession in getting away from Danarius. He would prove to Greagoir and the others that he was worth the trouble, though he hoped the hunters wouldn't show up any time soon. Between himself, Hawke and Bethany, they'd killed the lot. It would be at least a month before Danarius even thought to send out others.

And he would be waiting. Maybe even with a mage of his own at his back to defend him instead of the other way around. And that, he thought as he fell asleep, was definitely an odd thing for him to hope for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for the Crusaders came from a back and forth I've had with Vee as we were playing Diablo 3. She fell in love with the idea of a warrior faction for the mages of the DA universe and we bounce ideas back and forth for awhile before I stopped pussyfooting and started writing. It's thanks to her that I've been able to take these random bits of plot and really form a (hopefully) cohesive story. So major thanks to her, and of course for always being supportive of me. Especially when I'm in the throes of "I SUCK AT WRITING". Thank you, darling.
> 
> The title for the compilation "Soldiers of the Wasteland" comes from a very good song of the same name by the band DragonForce, while the title is a takeoff of the Crusader motto from Diablo 3.
> 
> That all said, I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.


	2. Chapter 2

Not having to contend with the late night his bunkmates had, Fenris rose early as he typically did. However, his morning routine would need to be carried out elsewhere, as the room afforded little space to do much. He gathered his armor and sword, attempting to be as quiet as he could. Four men occupied the bunk beds, all sleeping soundly. They'd come in late and Fenris had barely woken as they settled, telling raunchy stories, swapping tales, or commenting on what happened at that evening's card game. It was easy enough to ignore the conversation and return to sleep. Uncomfortable though the cot was, he'd slept on worse, and it was designed for a human so it was rather roomier than he'd initially thought it would be.

He slipped from the room, not bothering to lock the door and after a stop in the privy, located the training room Hawke pointed out the previous night. It was a simple hall with weapon and armor racks, stuffed straw dummies that had seen better days, and a makeshift mat in the center for physical sparring. He supposed he would meet the other recruits today, whenever the rest of the barracks woke. Until then, he peeled off his jerkin and began an exercise regimen he'd kept for years. Pushing himself to the limit was often the best way to start his daily routine. It left his mind clear for the tasks to which Danarius would have him attend.

Irritatingly, Danarius filled his mind now. He pushed himself harder, taking up his sword to attack the dummies, which were quite sturdy despite their battered appearances. His master might not hear about the failed hunt for another week or two, perhaps more. He had no way of knowing how many more soldiers Danarius would send after him, only that he rarely received more than a month or two of peace before they were upon him again. The frustrating thing was that had the Qunari not attacked in Seheron, Fenris never would have even thought of escaping Danarius. He'd been left behind as property. The Fog Warriors nursed him back to health, showed him what it was like to have a real life after the battle.

Battle. It was more a massacre. The slaves that were left behind stood barely a chance against the hulking Qunari. Fenris at least had his sword, his armor, had fought until he was no longer conscious. He had no way of knowing how many elves died that day or what history would say on the matter years from now. He only knew that was the day his master failed him. The day he finally learned better. The day he decided he would take his destiny in his own hands and be a slave no more.

"Oh!"

He stopped mid-swing and turned, markings dulling. He'd been so caught up in his anger that he didn't realize they'd started to glow, nor did he hear the creaky hinges of the door. A dwarf stood in the doorway, bow in one hand, book in the other, a leather quiver slung on her back. He frowned, dropping his sword arm. Of course the Church would have dwarves. It made him feel better actually, after the talk he'd had with Hawke and Bethany yesterday regarding elves. Everyone he'd seen so far was human. And while he'd gotten some odd looks, he thought they were more for his markings than for his race. He pushed his sweaty bangs from his forehead and frowned, looking at her.

"I'm usually the only one who gets up so early," she said in a rush. "I don't think I've ever seen you around. Judging from the way you work a sword though, you're a Crusader recruit and not an apprentice, right? Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course," she added. "I'm one myself. A Crusader. Not an apprentice." She laughed a bit shakily. "Can you imagine? The first dwarf ever who could use magic! That would be a tale for the history books. And while I would _love_ to use magic, I'm honestly just here to learn. I haven't been assigned a mage yet though. It's been a few months, actually," she said sadly, frowning. "But I don't mind. It gives me more time to study the theory of magic and practice with my bow. Have you been assigned a mage yet? By the way, I'm Dagna!"

"Er."

Fenris had no idea what to say to that. In the few seconds he'd known her, he surmised that she was perhaps the oddest dwarf he'd ever met. Being in the Imperium where the dwarves had their own embassy, it wasn't unusual to come across several in the streets. They were held in high regard, just as the magisters themselves were. Dwarves were respected; after all they were the ones who provided the precious lyrium the magisters needed to replenish their mana.

"What's your name?" she tried, stepping into the room, letting the door shut behind her.

"Fenris."

"Oh! I know what that means. I studied a little Elvish because a lot of their language is tied up with some older magic. 'Little Wolf.'" She beamed.

Fenris scowled. Danarius had given him the name and called him that on occasion. He hated it. "Do not call me that."

"Oh. All right," she acquiesced. "Well. Fenris then. You're… not a mage, right?" She took a few more tentative steps forward, her eyes tracing the lyrium markings on his arms and chest.

Fenris quickly picked up his jerkin, tugging it over his head. "No. I am not."

"Oh," she said again, and sounded a bit disappointed.

There was an awkward silence, and Fenris cleared his throat. "The room is yours if you wish it. I was just finishing."

A lie, but one he was willing to tell in order to seek out some privacy and perhaps a washbasin before breakfast.

"Do you shoot?" she asked, gesturing to the bow. "If I could swing a sword like you, I wouldn't need to practice the bow, though. I'm not very good with a sword. Or knives. My father was an armorer. I know how to make swords but I'm sort of useless when it comes to actually wielding one. Which is why I came to the Circle. Well. There's more than that to the story of course. But the Warden – oh, sorry. Warden Cousland, do you know him?" She didn't wait for an answer. "He sent word to the Circle, the _Chantry_ Circle to see if I could study there. Unfortunately they rejected me, but not a week later I received a letter from First Enchanter Irving who said I could come here to be considered for study! Isn't that exciting?" She grinned. "I've read so many books in the library so far even though I've only been here a few months. They had to relocate the Great Library from the original Circle in the south. Very few books were lost. I think that's excellent. Not many cultures really work very hard on preserving their history, especially humans, don't you think?"

Fenris, who did love history, actually agreed with her on that. The ancient Tevinters of course kept records but they were mostly of which houses bore mages, family trees that could be dated back to the original magisters in the Imperium.

"I am trained in most forms of combat," he replied carefully, answering one of her half dozen questions.

"So are you new? I think I would've remembered seeing you around. Someone last night said something about a tattooed elf, but we don't have any Dalish around here."

Fenris's lips pursed into a tight line. "I am not Dalish." He did hold a certain amount of pride in his race, being an elf. But he thought the Dalish were somewhat foolish. You didn't need to become nomadic and avoid all contact with others in order to preserve history. The world would always continue to move forward and it was useless to dwell in the past.

"Oh? But the…" She gestured to her own chin and neck.

He had told Hawke and Bethany a bit about the markings and Greagoir even less. And while he knew that he would be a source of fascination for the others, and he was used to people staring, it was something else to be asked so abruptly about them. The magisters in Tevinter knew what they were and what he was capable of doing with them. Danarius never hesitated to give them a demonstration though.

"They are not vallaslin," he muttered. "They are lyrium."

Her eyes widened. "Really? Lyrium? In your skin? Didn't that _hurt_?"

"…Indeed. I'll leave you the room," he said quickly, not wanting to talk to this strange woman anymore about his markings.

"Oh," she said, and Fenris wondered if that was her favorite word. "Did I offend you? I'm sorry. First Enchanter Irving says sometimes I lack a filter. I just get so excited about everything. I mean, I lived my whole life in Orzammar, so coming to the surface there's just so many things that are different. You're not angry, are you?" she asked, and bit her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth.

Thinking perhaps it wasn't a good idea to make enemies on his first day, Fenris stopped. He was frowning still, but contemplatively as he tried to think of how to address this. "I… have not been outside the Tevinter Imperium until recently. This is relatively new for me as well."

She made a sympathetic noise, putting the pieces together. He could see it in her face as her brows knitted, the worried look fading to concern. Fenris wasn't sure if he preferred that.

"Do not… I don't want pity," he said with some difficulty.

"No," she agreed. "When I first came here, I got a lot of weird looks because there aren't many dwarves around. Well. There's Sandal and his father."

"The enchanter?"

"Have you met him?" she asked, with the same excitement in her tone.

"No. Hawke mentioned him."

"Oh, you know Hawke! He's the coolest, isn't he?" She grinned.

"Er."

"Anyway," she said, waving a hand, some papers fluttering from the book. "Oops. Anyway, oh! Thank you!"

He'd bent to pick them up, handing them back to her. "Did it take the others long to get used to you?"

"I think it was less the fact that I'm a dwarf and more my… um." She shifted from foot to foot, stuffing the papers back into the book.

"Behavior?" Fenris guessed, wondering if that was too tactless. It seemed he would be walking on eggshells around her, and perhaps everyone he met. In Minrathous, Danarius told him when to speak or when to hold his tongue. Among the Fog Warriors, he spoke freely. Here, he would need to be careful not to anger the wrong person lest they hold influence and somehow convince Greagoir to send him on his way.

"Yes," she sighed. "I can't help it! Everything is just so exciting. It's one of the reasons I want to be assigned to a mage. I want to see the world! Even if it's just the rest of Ferelden," she added.

"Have you asked?"

She shrugged. "Several times, yes. I think I'm just starting to annoy them. So I try to stay out of the First Enchanter's way and make myself useful."

Fenris, despite himself, found that he felt a little bad for her. He pushed it away. She would not want his pity, no more than he wanted hers. "Dagna, was it?"

She nodded. "That's right."

"Did you want me to look at your form with the bow?"

Her face split into a grin and he found himself returning it, if less exuberantly. He set his sword aside and waited until she tucked her things into a corner. They lined up across from the dummies that Fenris had been hacking away at. He watched her grip the bow, and wondered idly who trained her. She fired off three arrows as befitting a novice, but he saw many things to be corrected. While Fenris hated to feel grateful to Danarius for any reason, the fact that the magister paid a lot of coin to have him trained properly looked as if it would pay off in more ways than one.

"You seem to be lacking a lot of the proper equipment. Are there no recurve bows in the armory?"

She frowned, tilting her head.

Fenris took the bow from her and demonstrated with his finger. "It turns out, giving the bow additional power. You may need to work a bit before you're able to fire it. Have you been trained in upper body strength?"

Dagna shook her head. "I'm still kind of new to the rest of the Crusaders. I think they see me as more of … mascot." The word was almost whispered.

Fenris clucked his tongue. "I was a slave. It didn't stop me. We'll get you properly outfitted."

Strange, he thought, that he was the one to reassure her when he'd been in the barracks less than twenty-four hours. And while he didn't particularly want to ask Hawke for yet more favors, making sure a fellow Crusader could handle herself in the field was beneficial to all. He demonstrated how to hold the bow, showing her the proper way to stand.

"Where did you learn this? Did your master teach you? I mean… is that… that's not… Is it bad to ask that?" she stammered, glancing at him, though not quite meeting his eye.

He hummed a little. "No. If there is a question you wish to ask, ask. However, I may not answer."

"I understand. And you can ask me about Orzammar! If you want. It wasn't that interesting."

"Did you see many Provings?" he asked, gesturing for her to try shooting once more.

Dagna withdrew an arrow and, using the stance and hold that Fenris taught her, drew back the string and let it fly. It hit the target in the middle of the head. "Oh! That was good!"

Fenris smirked.

"I did. Provings, I mean. But the most amazing one was the Warden. He pretty much took on everyone single-handedly. But he had a golem with him as well. Can you imagine that? A real _golem_. I haven't seen one in… in… "

"The Warden? Cousland? The Crusaders do like to talk about him quite a bit." He recalled not only Hawke's praise, but the name did seem to be on the lips of quite a few people at the previous night's supper.

"Oh he's just _extraordinary_ ," she gasped, nearly dropping her bow in her excitement. "Tall and handsome and rugged and – Oh! That's not to say you're not or anything, just-"

Fenris held up a hand. "My ego can handle the blow, I assure you." His lips quirked in a small smile.

"That… that's a joke, right?"

He lowered his head, sighing quietly. "Yes. Shall we continue with your training?"

"Oh, yes!"

He continued to instruct her for the next quarter of an hour when others started to trickle in. Some acknowledged Dagna, and one or two nodded to him. Those he was introduced to last night by Hawke. Most simply glimpsed his markings but said nothing. Dagna took an arrow from her quiver, but didn't nock it. She was frowning.

"What is it?"

"Maybe we should stop for now."

He raised an eyebrow, then crossed his arms. "Are you intimidated by them? Are there no other women Crusaders?"

"There are. It's just…"

"You wish to get better. The only way to do so is practice. And if there is any criticism to be had, if it's warranted, you push forward and deal with it. If it is unwarranted, you ignore it. Or challenge them to a duel."

He realized that perhaps his methods were a little on the extreme side. Dagna's eyes grew wide and he could tell she was wondering if it was a joke or not. Fenris had seen Danarius perform the dance, the challenge to another magister who dared to insult him. He'd never seen his master lose. Perhaps it was because he never went against anyone he didn't already know he could beat. Other than the fight on Serehon, Fenris had never lost a fight either. He wasn't sure that a dozen or more Qunari against one lone elf with a blade was a fair fight, though.

"They will not say anything to you as long as I'm here. They're intimidated by me."

"But you're so nice," she said, sounding confused.

Fenris blinked. The proclamation was abrupt, but he was slowly getting used to her eccentric ways. "Nice?"

He'd never been described before in such a way. Danarius had a slew of affectionate adjectives for him. The Fog Warriors called him, 'capable' among other compliments. 'Nice' was never used when referring to him. Bethany, he thought, deserved that. Bethany was nice. Hawke, even though he was a bit rough around the edges, obviously lacking refinement, was nice. And Dagna, in her excitement and openness, was odd, but definitely nice.

"You took the time to help a dwarf learn how to shoot her bow. You didn't… you didn't call me names or treat me differently."

He frowned. "In case you missed the part where I am an elf…" He sighed. "Do they treat you badly here?"

"No!" she said quickly. "Of course not. It's just… sometimes I wish I could go out on assignment. That I could finally find a partner. Or that there were other… other dwarves like me."

Fenris couldn't help the slightly sympathetic noise that manifested in the back of his throat. While Hawke and Bethany and even Greagoir hadn't treated him any differently, how many times had he gone to an inn only to be rejected because of his elven status? His coin simply wasn't good enough because he was a knife-eared bastard. And it wasn't the markings. He was sure to cover them the best he could. The lines that reached his chin could pass for vallaslin easily. Anyone who saw him usually assumed, like Dagna, that he was Dalish.

"Come then. Let's get breakfast and meet with Hawke. I'm sure I'm nearly late for my training assignment."

They gathered their things, receiving the barest of nods and acknowledgements as they left. Fenris wondered if that would change once he was partnered with a mage, or if the relative indifference from the others would remain. Perhaps there was some sort of hazing ritual he would be forced to undergo. He'd seen it with household slaves. Any time Danarius acquired a new one, there would always be some tension before they made a mistake and were reprimanded harshly by the woman in charge of the kitchens. He'd never experienced it himself, the favored slave of their master. He was treated differently, even by others of his same status. He quickly pushed those thoughts from his head. It would not do to dwell on them. He was past that point in his life now.

They dropped their things off in their respective rooms and had a quick wash before heading back downstairs for breakfast. The commons was quite a bit fuller than the night before, Fenris wincing as magic seemed to permeate the air. He felt it in his skin, the lyrium making him ache. Several heads turned in their direction, and Fenris thought further about what an odd pairing they made. A dwarf interested in all things magical, who was nearly entirely immune to the effects, and an elf who was hypersensitive to it, yet had no interest whatsoever.

It was Bethany who saw them first, waving them over excitedly. Fenris was relieved to move from the doorway and the focus of the room, and settled down at the table across from her. Dagna sat next to him, grinning at Bethany who returned it before addressing Fenris.

"Are you excited for your first day of training?" she asked him. "Did you have any problems last night?"

"No problems." It wasn't technically a lie. Avoiding conversations with his bunkmates led to not having any issues. He wondered if he could continue doing so. "What does this training involve?"

Hawke dropped heavily into the seat next to Bethany, tray clattering. He pushed around a pile of lumpy grey mush. "They call it porridge," he huffed.

"Better than the ration bars they give us for the road," Bethany said, reaching for the jar of honey. She spooned a bit into the grey mush.

"I'm going to get breakfast," Dagna announced, standing. "Fenris, do you want anything?"

"Er. Just… tea, thank you," he said, feeling slightly awkward.

Hawke watched her leave, then looked at Fenris. "Making friends already."

His shoulder twitched in a bit of an irritated shrug. "I assisted her with her bow work earlier this morning before the training hall became…"

"Unbearable?" Bethany suggested. She rolled her eyes a little. "Don't get me wrong. The Crusaders are like family of course but they can be a bit overbearing."

"Hey!" Hawke protested.

"It's true, brother, and you know it," she insisted. "Maker knows I can only handle so much machismo in one room."

Fenris smirked slightly. With the magisters in Tevinter, whenever strength and power needed to be proven, it was guaranteed that a slave would suffer. He preferred this – warriors comparing the sizes of their swords for posterity.

"It was not intolerable," he said graciously.

Hawke nudged Bethany. "See? It wasn't… wait, that's good, right?"

"Yes," Fenris confirmed. "Though Dagna…"

"She's a bit much to handle," Hawke said.

"No, not quite what I was getting at," Fenris said, feeling a slight surge of defensiveness toward the dwarf. It was odd, he'd only known her perhaps an hour or so and already he felt a slight kinship. He knew what it was like to be an outsider amidst humans. "Why hasn't she been assigned to a mage yet?"

Hawke shrugged and looked to Bethany.

"The First Enchanter and the Crusader Commander look at all personalities and take into account skill levels among other things," she said, leaning forward a bit. "Dagna's very enthusiastic, and while she's a fantastic historian, her skills with a bow are a bit lacking."

"Why has no one attempted to assist her before now?"

Hawke shifted uncomfortably. "If it was a sword…"

"The last time my brother used a bow, he nearly put my eye out."

Fenris frowned. "That does not fully answer the question."

But Dagna returned with a tray of her own and a cup of black tea for Fenris. She grinned broadly at them all before sitting down. "What did I miss?"

"We were discussing your training," Fenris said. "Why has no one attempted to train you on the proper use of a bow before now?"

"Oh. Not many of the Crusaders are archers. Most of them use melee weapons. I think it's because a lot of mages are ranged, so it makes sense to have a…"

"Meat shield," Hawke supplied between mouthfuls of porridge.

"Yes, that!" Dagna said, picking up a piece of bacon and munched on it. "At any rate, I hardly mind. There's a lot to do here. The Bannorn suffered as well, you know."

"Mm. Well," Fenris said, sipping his tea, "I will continue to train you in whatever capacity I can either during or after my own if possible."

She beamed at him, and Fenris noticed Bethany nudging Hawke. He frowned, raising an eyebrow, but Bethany shook her head slightly. He wondered what was meant by it, but it was apparent he wasn't supposed to ask. Instead, he sipped his tea while they spoke, discussing what they were to do that day. Bethany was going to assist the enchanters, helping apprentices learn the basics while Hawke would be aiding in overseeing the recruits with a few other seasoned Crusaders. Those who were in for a few days before they had to leave on assignment once more were expected to do what they could. The feeling of community was strong in the Church's Circle.

"How many Crusader recruits are there presently in this holdfast?" Fenris asked.

"Including yourself, six or seven," Hawke said with a sigh. "Normally we have more signing up, but the Blight took its toll. And the King's Army needs the fighting men more than we do right now. We're helping out where we can of course. The Chantry has every templar that's not in Kinloch Hold in Denerim right now to help rebuild. King Alistair's asked us to help with the rest of the country. Every able-bodied person is working the fields or picking up pieces. The Blight completely killed the flow of trade and there's talk of raising export taxes to an astronomical rate just because we need all the resources. It'll take years before Ferelden will fully recover."

Fenris's brow furrowed. He didn't understand much about trade and economics, but from what Hawke was describing, it did sound as if the country was barely being held together. "Does Ferelden not have allies?"

"Oh there's the rumor of King Alistair wedding Empress Celene to form an alliance," Hawke said. "But you can imagine how many people are in favor of that, considering our history with Orlais."

"The occupation," Fenris guessed.

"Well, it did only end a few decades ago. Some people remember it well enough to hate Orlesians still," Hawke said, shrugging irritably.

"They would hold their prejudices before the safety and prosperity of their country?" Fenris knew that the rest of Thedas held the Imperium in very low regard and they were only barely tolerated by the Chantry. However, during the Qunari attacks on Serehon, the Archon still entreated aid from the surrounding countries, including Orlais. 

"It's a warranted prejudice," Hawke said evenly.

Bethany frowned. "Maybe, but that prejudice continues to be handed down from parent to child, the wounds will never be mended. We're not fighting with Orlais anymore. And Empress Celene even sent a legion of chevaliers to help with the Blight."

"It's too bad Loghain had them ordered away at the border," Hawke noted.

"Loghain?" Fenris was quickly losing the thread of Fereldan politics.

"He was King Cailan's right hand," Hawke explained. "Left him to die on the battlefield. Lot of good people died that day."

Dagna swallowed a mouthful of egg before saying, "Stuff like that happens all the time in Orzammar. There are duels in the street. Not so much anymore, I guess. Not with King Harrowmont on the throne now thanks to the Warden. But after King Endrin died, it was chaos. Oh," she added, "I never said that, by the way. They're all very secretive in Orzammar."

"But that doesn't matter because you're casteless now, aren't you?" Hawke asked. "Ow!" he cried as Bethany smacked him on the arm. "What?"

"You have all the sensitivity of an iron mallet, I swear."

Dagna smiled, tight-lipped. "It's okay, really. I gave it up. It wasn't like I was thrown out or anything. And I write my father every month."

Fenris wanted to ask if she received any letters in response, but knowing what he did of Dagna, she would have likely mentioned it in one breath. "Sometimes the family we make is better than the family we were born into. With no offense to your own," he added to Hawke and his sister.

Bethany smiled. He returned it almost automatically, and quickly averted his eyes.

"Do you know anything about your own family?" Dagna asked.

Fenris sipped his tea to hide the frown that threatened to surface. "Unfortunately I do not. I assume they're slaves like myself, but I don't recall ever meeting them."

"You don't recall?"

He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. It was one thing that Hawke and Bethany knew about the markings, the ritual that wiped his memories. They saved his life and he owed them a debt. While personal information wasn't something he would have offered up as recompense, it seemed almost natural to tell them. Hawke was an easy man to talk to and Bethany was sweet. And Dagna was as well in her own way. Was this what it was like to have friends? People who were genuinely interested in him, not just his markings or his abilities? Who asked about himself with no thought of personal gain?

"My memories were lost when I received my markings," he said carefully. "Perhaps I did have a family once. I cannot remember them."

"Oh that's terrible!" Dagna gasped. "I'm sorry!"

"Don't trouble yourself," he muttered. "After all, if I cannot remember them, I cannot miss them."

She seemed to think about this, idly pushing at the egg on her plate with her fork. "I suppose. Well. Wherever they are, I'm sure they would be proud of you."

He looked at her, head slightly cocked. "Proud?"

"You know! For becoming a Crusader! I know the Order isn't in Tevinter, but it's still a noble calling. Protecting mages, doing what the Chantry's Circle failed to do. Helping out the good of the kingdom, the whole lot of it!"

"I… suppose."

"Well, I need to get to the library and return those books," she said, standing. She hesitated, but gently touched his shoulder.

Fenris flinched, but didn't pull away.

"Bye!" she said to Hawke and Bethany before picking up her tray and leaving.

Bethany grinned widely, then covered her mouth and giggled. Hawke snickered. Fenris felt like he'd missed something.

"Was there something funny?"

"No," Bethany managed, her face slightly red. "Oh, I shouldn't laugh. It's sweet!"

"Sweet?" he asked, frowning.

Hawke coughed. "Dagna."

"She is… sweet, I suppose. I'm not sure I understand-"

"She's got a crush on you!" Bethany blurted. "You couldn't tell?"

Fenris's frown deepened. "A… crush."

"There's definite puppy love there," Hawke confirmed.

"I wasn't… I was simply… She…" He floundered, trying to search for the words to explain himself. He hadn't done anything to warrant that, had he? "I was simply being amiable to another Crusader."

"Oh, Fenris, we know," Bethany said. "It's not as if you were flirting with her."

"Or were you?" Hawke asked, leaning forward, wiggling his eyebrows. "When you were showing her how to shoot her bow? Or was that euphemism for something else?"

"There was – No!" he said quickly, feeling the heat rising in his face up to the tips of his ears.

"You're blushing," Hawke pressed. "Are you sure you're not lying about that?"

"I am not!" he snarled, standing, smacking his hands on the table, rattling silverware.

A few occupants of their table looked over, and Fenris blushed harder, slumping down, glaring at the dregs of his tea.

"Easy," Hawke said carefully. "Just teasing."

"I do not… it is not my intention to become involved in such a way with anyone here," Fenris said finally.

Hawke finished a last spoonful of porridge before standing, taking up his tray. "It's fine. Just as long as you don't lead her on. She's kind of sensitive."

"Kind of," Fenris repeated hollowly.

Bethany reached over and laid her hand over his. "I'll talk to her for you. To make it easier."

Fenris looked down at her fingers covering his own. The blush returned, and he scowled, pulling his hand away. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary. I'll speak with her myself." He stood, then looked at Hawke. "You were going to oversee my official training."

Hawke, smirking, gestured with his head. Fenris took up his cup, nodded to Bethany, and followed him. Friends or not, he wasn't quite sure he enjoyed their teasing ways.


	3. Chapter 3

Crusader training was exhausting in the best way possible. Though there were only a handful of recruits, they weren't the only ones to follow the senior Crusaders in training. The process, he learned, was ongoing. For several days, other than the recruits including himself and Dagna, there was an ever changing roster of those undertaking the official training. Templar abilities such as smites and cleansings were taught. Fenris found these abilities particularly intriguing. He'd never seen templars in the Imperium use anything like them on the magisters. In fact, he thought it would likely have resulted in the swift death of the templar should something like that happen. It gave him a certain empowerment to know he was learning how to neutralize a magister's spells.

Fenris enjoyed the long days, waking up early, breakfasting with Hawke, Bethany, and Dagna, then going directly into physical training. He sparred against his fellows, quickly marked as a cut above the rest, and found himself teaching out the techniques that Danarius's trainers had taught him. How to hold a sword in such a way as to not tire so easily, or to throw a knife with better accuracy. He wasn't the best archer they had, but his keen eyesight put him at an almost unfair advantage for those who were even novice archers. He assisted Dagna every free minute he had, which admittedly wasn't very often once his real training had begun.

Hawke and Bethany continued to give him pointed looks during mealtimes, especially when Dagna would talk excitedly about him, despite the fact that he was sitting next to her. She'd describe something he'd done in training, only for Fenris to try to tone down the achievement, to push modesty rather than pride. Dagna would insist on it though. The one thing she didn't talk about, however, was his participation or lack thereof in the intellectual portions of training.

For two or three hours out of every day, a mage named Karl Thekla would collect them into a makeshift classroom, a large slate board at the front. The man would lecture, talking about magic, the history of the Church and the Chantry alike, what set them apart from the templars and the Chantry's Circle. It was largely a history lesson, with a lot of theoretical study on magic itself. Fenris, despite himself and his hatred of the magisters, found it very intriguing. These were mages with almost true freedom. Of course their Crusaders kept them in check, and there was talk of mages that fell to blood magic despite it all, but the record of those in the Church falling was extremely low in comparison to those in the Chantry. 

And yet, for all their freedom, these mages did not seek power. They truly seemed to want to serve, to help their country. Not everyone in the Circle was Fereldan either, but they all appeared to have a certain loyalty. He counted quite a few Rivaini and Antivans, and knowing there wasn't a Church Circle closer than the Free Marches, it made sense. Perhaps this system worked. It did inspire a sort of loyalty in him that he'd not felt since his time with the Fog Warriors.

However, as much as he enjoyed the training and the lessons alike, there was the one small problem that he could neither read nor write. Not that Enchanter Thekla forced them to do so. But he was provided paper, ink, and quill and the others in the class took the occasional notes. When the enchanter wrote upon the slate, he was unable to read any of it. And the titles for suggested reading, while he could commit them to memory, he wouldn't be able to take advantage of the knowledge they offered. It didn't make him feel inferior to the others, but it did make his training feel incomplete in a way, and it would need to be dealt with sooner than later.

On the evening of the fourth night he spent in the holdfast, Fenris thought perhaps he should tackle one problem at a time. Dagna had become a not unwelcome shadow. He enjoyed her rambling speech once he realized he wasn't expected to engage in conversation. It was a welcome complement to his own introspective persona. Her speech allowed him to think in much the same way that a thunderstorm was calming to some. He followed the thread easily, but if he missed a question, she never seemed to mind repeating herself for his opinion. It was, however, somewhat obvious that she did indeed have a crush on him. He was slowly growing used to the little touches from her, the pats or slaps on his back or arm from Hawke, and Bethany's own light touches. But it was apparent that of the three, Dagna looked at him slightly differently.

He walked her to her room after supper as he often did, as it was on the way to his own, but stopped a few feet before they reached her door. "Dagna, I… wanted to speak with you about a sensitive topic."

She stopped, tilting her head a bit. "Oh?"

He cleared his throat. "Hawke and Bethany seem to think that you have a… ah. An affection for me." He watched her cheeks go pink, and it seemed to confirm their suspicions. "I am flattered, but I am not… er…"

"You don't have to say anything," she said, in her same rushed tone, though it was somewhat subdued. "I understand."

"No, it's not that you are… not that I am uninterested. Simply that I am not looking… I did not anticipate to make friends, let alone look for romance… Therefore…"

"But if you wanted to," she said carefully, shifting a bit, looking up at him.

Fenris had seen the way other slaves looked at him. With envy or even open lust. Other magisters would glance his way and he felt their desirous stares. Danarius would look at him in such a way, and then take him to bed. It wasn't unusual, Fenris learned, for magisters to even share their slaves amongst the others. Danarius never did, proclaiming a fierce authority over him, mind and body. It was only with the Fog Warriors did he eventually learn that he had a choice, a right to say 'No' and also to ask of others. He'd only asked once, and she gave willingly.

"It's complicated. My past. I'm not seeking a romantic relationship with anyone, and I believe that it's in both our best interests for me to state this upfront."

"Oh."

"I still wish for us to be friends. I enjoy your company."

It had gotten awkward. She nodded, but smiled, and Fenris forced himself to return it.

"Of course!" she said. "Well. Lots of things to do before bed. I'll see you in the morning!"

Before he could say anything else, she hurried down the hall. He huffed, blowing a bit of air through his bangs, and wondered how that could have possibly gone any worse. Still, he supposed it was better to hear it from himself than have Bethany do it. He hadn't lied, after all. For him, even platonic friendships were complicated. He thought he could handle something simple, but it had quickly become difficult even after only a few days. Perhaps Bethany would speak with Dagna regardless and smooth things over.

Deciding that he likely wasn't going to get any sleep anytime soon, he turned around and headed toward the library instead. He'd been there once when Hawke gave him the tour, and finding it this time was somewhat of a challenge. After losing his way twice, he finally found the open door that led him into the large but rather cramped room. It was apparent that the family of the holdfast – whom he'd yet to see or meet – already had an extensive collection of books. Tomes were perched now two or three deep on the shelves, stacked as neatly as possible on tables, or piled on the floor. Several couches and armchairs dotted the two story room, a winding iron staircase leading to the second level. The chandelier was lit by magical enchantment, likely to lessen the chance of a fire with candles or oil lamps.

He felt distinctly out of place. Though supper had ended a short time ago, the library was empty. Fenris thought perhaps the others had their fill of studying during the day. Nights in the commons often progressed into card games. He had no talent for them, and would normally use the time to either train with Dagna or take care of his sword and armor. He'd even taken to doing the same for the training equipment, not out of any obligation, but to stop himself from going stir-crazy. He hadn't left the holdfast since his arrival, and wondered if he would be assigned a mage before Hawke and Bethany and so many others left for their assignments at the end of the week.

The titles on the books that were stacked up made no difference to him. He chose a thinner one and sat down in a chair, opening it. Judging from the pictures sketched, it appeared to be a book on musical instruments. He recognized a few of them, looking at the caption underneath. But it was no use. The few books he'd been allowed to look at in Danarius's mansion were written in Tevene, and this was in the trade tongue. Sighing, he flipped through the pages, studying the diagrams on how each instrument was put together. The piano in particular was very interesting. He'd only seen one during a grand ball, and quite enjoyed the sound it made. He knew how to play the lute, and could sing a few songs, but his primary area of study had always been combat. He wondered if given the choice, he would have chosen something else for himself.

But he was free now, so couldn't he make that choice? Danarius was still after him. But should the magister ever give up the chase or Maker willing turn up dead, would he do something else? There wasn't much else he knew. He wasn't even sure he would learn how to read. If there was even time. Any stories he learned had always been through Danarius and others staying with them. Danarius did love to read to him, ever since he was younger, curled up on a comfortable sofa together in front of the fire. He closed the book, frowning. It was embarrassing, but Hawke might be able to help. Fenris just wasn't sure he could shelve his pride to ask.

"It's more than time."

Fenris looked up. He was sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, hidden by a shelf and a table with books piled high. Carefully he drew his legs up underneath him and peeked over to look. Two men had entered the library. One he recognized as Enchanter Thekla, his grey beard and hair easily identifiable. He was also one of the only mages who wore traditional looking robes and light leather pauldrons, though they were missing tonight. He was scratching at his beard, speaking to another mage from the looks of the man's staff. Though Fenris supposed a Crusader could have borne a weapon like that, with its silver top fashioned to look like a dragon's head.

"It's not time," the other man insisted. His blond hair was drawn back into a messy ponytail, several strands of hair loose around his face. His chin and cheeks showed evidence of several days without a shave, the beginnings of a beard. "There's no specific _timeframe_ for this sort of thing, Karl."

"I'm not insisting that you should forget him. But you're not a teacher, Anders. You know that. I know that." He smiled softly and reached out, touching Anders on the arm. "How long before you decide you don't want to stay cooped up anymore and decide to run off? How long are you going to wear this?" He reached up to touch something around Anders' neck.

Anders pulled back as if suddenly burned. "Don't! Don't touch that. It's his. And I'm keeping it. It's mine now."

Fenris frowned, leaning up a bit to see if he could see what they were discussing, but Anders moved, and his back was toward him now.

"The First Enchanter-" Karl tried.

"Irving can sit on it."

Fenris bit his lip to keep from laughing. It was such an absurd statement. He supposed not every mage looked up to the First Enchanter the way Bethany did.

"Anders…"

"I don't care what he thinks or what Greagoir thinks. I'm not breaking any rules. In fact, I've been the paragon of good manners since my last reprimand. Or have you forgotten?"

Fenris watched Karl step forward again, and Anders allowed it. Karl took him into his embrace, holding him firmly, rubbing his back. He'd never seen Enchanter Thekla like this before. The man wasn't afraid of affection, he did smile a lot, shook hands often, and even patted the apprentices on the back or the arm. This was different though, tender. Fenris sank down a bit, wondering if perhaps this moment was too private to be eavesdropping upon.

"I haven't," Karl said quietly, though Fenris could still hear. "I just… worry. You're very good with the apprentices and I like having you here, but Anders you were never meant to stay in the Circle. He knew that."

Anders' shoulders shook slightly, and Fenris realized he was crying. Frowning, he sunk down a bit more in the chair, feeling extremely awkward. He couldn't leave. Karl and Anders were between himself and the door. If he stood, he would likely be seen even though he was in the shadows and behind the shelf. He tried not to listen, staring at the cover of the book in his lap.

"I don't want another Crusader, Karl. I want him back." Anders' voice was barely a whisper.

"I know, love," Karl said, his voice full of sympathy. "What about someone you know already? Someone you're familiar with? I can ask Irving…"

"Send me with Hawke and Bethany. They don't look at me with pity. Or ask about him. Or how I'm feeling."

"I would love to, but I'm not in charge of that decision. And Greagoir wouldn't stand for-"

"I hate him, Karl. I hate the whole bloody Circle."

Fenris flinched at that. Was Anders one of the mages who tried to escape despite the leniency? Enchanter Thekla seemed to be content, but it was possible they were conspiring together. _No_ , Fenris realized. It was simply because Anders was upset. He'd lost someone. More than likely in the Blight. His Crusader. Were they related like Hawke and Bethany? Was the bond between Crusader and mage truly that strong? Fenris couldn't imagine being that upset should anyone he was affiliated with perish. He would be sad, of course, if Hawke or Bethany or Dagna were to pass. But anyone from his past, likely not.

His thoughts turned to the Fog Warriors as Karl and Anders spoke quietly, the former calming and attempting to comfort the latter. He closed his eyes against the feeling of regret. He'd known them only a few months. The loss he felt cut deeply, but hadn't brought him to tears. In fact, he couldn't remember a time in which he had ever cried either due to physical or emotional pain. Perhaps Danarius had trained it out of him. Even at his absolute physical limit, Fenris had never shed a tear. Even after consuming all the alcohol he could afford one night. He rubbed at his eye with the back of his hand, solemnly remembering.

"Get some sleep," Karl was saying to Anders. "We'll speak more in the morning."

"You're just going to side with Irving," Anders said, a latent bitterness in his tired tone. 

"You know my stance. Please trust me. I've known you longer than even he did."

Fenris had a feeling Karl didn't mean Irving. He looked up, watched as Karl cupped his hand under Anders' chin, tilted his face up, and kissed him. Fenris's own lips parted unconsciously as he watched them. It was chaste but familiar, and Anders' hands gripped the front of his robes tightly, almost desperately. Karl pulled away first, smoothing back his hair, smiling sadly but fondly at him.

"Please try to get some sleep, Anders."

Anders nodded, releasing him. He sighed and left. Fenris stayed still, not daring to move. Karl's shoulders slumped slightly and he turned without any real direction, as if the library itself held the answers he sought. Fenris's heart stopped as Karl's eyes found his own. He watched the expression change from tired resignation to bewilderment. Fenris dropped his eyes immediately, a feeling of guilt coming over him. Soft footsteps grew louder, and he clenched the book in his lap as a shadow fell over him.

"Fenris?"

"I… apologize. I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

There was a soft sigh. "I suppose I don't have to ask you not to repeat anything you heard or saw. That was not your business."

"Of course."

"Fenris."

Fenris winced, but looked up.

"It's all right. These things happen. Please, just… next time speak up. It would be appreciated."

He wasn't yelling or berating him. Fenris knew the Circle wasn't Tevinter, that these people who were his superiors weren't magisters. It seemed a cruel twist of fate that would be serving mages yet again, and a bitter part of himself wanted to yell at Karl, to tell him that he shouldn't have private conversations in a public place if he didn't wish to be overheard. 

Perhaps sensing the awkwardness in the silence, Karl looked at the book in his hands. " _Repairing Musical Instruments_? I wasn't aware you were taken with the fine arts."

"I…" _Repairing_. Was that the first word on the cover? He touched it, fingers brushing the indentation the book press plate had made, the gold flecks peeling. "I do not…"

He looked at Karl, contemplating simply leaving the room without further explanation. But perhaps this was a blessing in disguise. Karl was, of course, a teacher. He wouldn't look at Fenris oddly or think it strange that a slave never learned how to read. But would there be pity there? It was a chance he would have to take, especially if he wanted to learn. He was sure Hawke or Bethany or even Dagna would assist, but asking Karl would somehow feel less like he was imposing.

"I cannot read."

There was a pause as Karl turned this information over. "I see," he said softly.

"Nor write," Fenris added.

Karl frowned, holding his hand out for the book. "May I?"

Fenris handed it to him.

"This is not the book you want to start with. Come. I was on my way here to pick up a few things when I ran into Anders. We can start you learning tonight, if you've nothing else to do. But in my office. It's private."

Fenris stood. It seemed he'd judged correctly. There was no pity, thank the Maker. It was simple acceptance. He followed Karl while the enchanter gathered a few books, paused with him while he wrote in the ledger, then followed him out. They walked silently through the slightly darkened halls, turning a corner into his office. Fenris flinched when Karl waved a hand, a spark of flame flying through the air to the candles in the small chandelier above his desk. He wasn't used to magic being used so freely without some accompanying pain with it, though his markings still tingled or ached when someone cast a spell in his vicinity. Karl pulled his own chair around to the other side of the desk and sat, gesturing for Fenris to do the same.

"I… appreciate…" he began awkwardly.

Karl looked up at him, a small tight-lipped smile on his face. "Of course. I can't imagine my classes are very easy though." He let out a slight laugh. "You pay better attention than the others. Sometimes I wonder if I'm talking to myself, the way those kids goof off. Sit."

Fenris lowered himself into the chair next to him, and watched as Karl turned his paper sideways and started making marks on them. He tilted his head slightly, recognizing the shape of some of the letters. Dagna always had a book with her, and remembered the one that looked like three fingers on its side. Hesitating, he lifted a hand and pointed to it. "What's that one?"

"That's the letter 'E'," Karl said patiently.

Fenris listened as he explained the difference between vowels and consonants, that vowels could make several different sounds depending on the word.

"It's been a while since I've had to teach language and grammar from the trade tongue," Karl admitted. "In the Chantry's Circle, I was in charge of the apprentices that couldn't yet read or write. I also worked with some of those who couldn't speak it."

"Mm." Fenris looked at him. "You speak other languages?"

Karl leaned back in his chair. "My native language is Ander. I grew up in the Anderfels, in Hossberg. The Chantry's Circle. I was transferred to Ferelden when I was seventeen. I also speak a bit of Orlesian. It's very easy to learn in comparison to the trade tongue. There are far fewer strange grammar rules, and the base of the language, though any Orlesian will deny it, is Ancient Tevene."

"I speak a bit of that," Fenris said. "The ancient tongue. My master-" He paused, frowning. It was easy to fall into the trap of talking about oneself, especially with someone like Karl, who he felt at ease with. The man adopted a sort of fatherly air, yet was still quite scholarly. Karl was waiting patiently, so Fenris continued. "My master taught me several languages, though I'm only fluent in the trade tongue, Tevene, and Antivan. My trainer spoke only Antivan, so it was necessary to learn it."

"Well. I'm glad at least something good came out of your situation. It's unfortunate your former master didn't see the benefit of giving you a proper education. A lot of mages come to the Circle without knowing how to read or write, most of them children of peasants."

Fenris nodded. It made sense. Any mage born of a noble family would have some formal education. "You said you were taken to the Chantry's Circle. What made you come to the Church?"

"It's a bit of an odd story. One that actually involves Anders."

"The mage in the library?" Fenris asked.

"Yes." Karl sat back in his chair, crossing his legs. He held a book in his lap, parchment on it as he wrote random words for Fenris to later copy. "He was brought there when he was twelve. Didn't speak a word of the trade tongue, so he was assigned to me to teach him. We both spoke Ander. And because most of the apprentices couldn't pronounce his name, he was called, 'That Anders kid' for a long time." Karl smiled, fond of the memory. "It stuck."

"I see. How does that equate to you leaving the Chantry's Circle?"

"Hm." Karl pursed his lips, tapping the quill against the parchment. "You see, the Chantry doesn't care for the Church much, so mages in the Chantry Circle aren't usually told that there's an option. Some of the older mages know, so it filters through the rumor mill. You receive mixed messages. First Enchanter Irving was given a weekend to speak to us, to clear up any misconceptions. I admit it sounded promising at the time. But I was invested in working with my students there. I didn't want to leave them."

Fenris recalled the kiss that Karl and Anders shared. He wondered what either Circle's policy on fraternizing was, not that he was interested in doing so with anyone. Dagna's sad expression would likely haunt him for some time. Then, subconsciously, he remembered a soft smile, a warm hand on his own. His fingers flexed of their own accord, and he realized the slight fluttering in his stomach wasn't at all unpleasant. _Bethany._ He frowned, and Karl tilted his head slightly.

"But Anders didn't want to stay in the Circle. Understandable, a boy of twelve ripped from his home."

Fenris nodded, following. Had Bethany been in the Chantry's Circle at all? Or was she immediately given to the Church? The Hawke family seemed entrenched in the Church, since Hawke's father had been a mage, his mother a Crusader. He assumed any children born of them would continue the trend. It wouldn't make sense for Bethany to be given to the Chantry only to join her family in the Church later.

"What happened?"

"He ran. In fact, from ages twelve to fourteen, he escaped three times."

Fenris frowned. "Was he… did the Chantry punish him?"

He knew what Hawke had said of the Church's stance on runaways and what happened to them. He also was very well aware of what happened to slaves who tried to run away. Or worse, those that rebelled. One of the city squares in Minrathous constantly stank of dead bodies as their hanged or impaled carcasses were left to rot or be eaten by the birds. Did the Chantry employ corporal punishment like floggings, or were they more like the Church and resorted to manual labor duties?

Karl frowned. "This is of course, Anders' story to tell. I suppose… since it coincides so closely with my own that I am at liberty to share. However, you'll not repeat this to anyone. Anders will tell those he wishes to."

"Of course," Fenris promised. He doubted he would even see Anders again. It sounded like the mage was more than happy to steer clear of his fellows and the Crusaders alike.

Karl sighed heavily. "He was put in solitary confinement in the tower's basement for six months."

"Six months?" Fenris asked, feeling somewhat appalled. Solitary confinement was not a punishment slaves endured. He'd been on his own a while, the years between his time spent with the Fog Warriors until now. But to be locked up, to have your freedom taken from you… the Chantry Circle here seemed to be no better than the magisters. But wasn't it for their own good? Mages who would run amok would sure turn to blood magic just like the Tevinter magisters. "Did… did Anders ever use blood magic to escape?"

Karl shook his head. "No. He's quite adamant against it. As is the Chantry and the Church. Of course, some blood magic can be used without making a deal with a demon, but starting down that path is a slippery slope. Some mages here study it to better combat it, with the help of their Crusaders. The First Enchanter and the Commander have read books on it; however the practical use is strictly forbidden and cautioned against. Any maleficarum are usually apostates from birth with no formal training. They go to blood because it's extremely powerful. And easy."

"Why is he so opposed? Or any mage, if it's easy? The magisters in Tevinter… they do not hesitate to spill another's blood for power or gain." This was quite, quite different from what Fenris was used to. Mages with a strong moral compass were unheard of in the Imperium.

Scratching at his beard, Karl thought. "Mages outside the Tevinter Circles are taught differently. Those that go to the Chantry are taught to fear their power. To think that their magic is a curse given to them by the Maker. That it is a stain upon their soul. That blood magic is the ultimate slap in the face to the Maker, and to use any kind of magic at all unless expressly told to by the Chantry is immoral, illegal and wrong. Here in the Church they teach you that your magic is a gift, though a dangerous one. That the Maker created all of us as we were and that we should use our gifts for the benefit of all mankind.

"For example," he continued, "If you were born with a talent for swinging a sword, wouldn't you want to help those who couldn't defend themselves? Or if you had an exceptional mind, you would want to put that mind to teaching others, or discovering new medicines or advances in building technology to better help out your city or village. Magic is just another tool. It doesn't make us different or better or more special or worse than anyone else."

Fenris gaped at him. He'd never, ever in his life heard a mage speak this way. The magisters in Tevinter believed it was their Maker-given right to be in the positions they were. That the verse from the Chant of Light meant serving the greater good, not those who truly needed the help. They talked of the ends justifying the means. But Karl… how he spoke, it made sense. After all, the one thing that seemed most universal among all races was the need to feel accepted, to feel wanted. Wasn't that what the mages here were doing?

"I… I see."

"Back to your original question, though," Karl said. "Anders would have a difficult time using blood magic, even if he was so inclined. There aren't many mages like him. He specializes in healing. Specifically spirit healing."

"I'm… not entirely sure what that means," Fenris admitted. "There weren't very many healers in Tevinter at all."

"I imagine there wouldn't be," Karl said, inclining his head a bit. "Healing magic strictly speaking isn't very rare. Most mages can grasp the basics of it, as they can elemental magic. Fire, ice," he explained. "Perhaps not in the quantity or quality that some who study that specific branch do, but for the most part… Creation magic is fairly simple to grasp, but it's more subtle than flinging a fireball or freezing an opponent. Anders was a natural, and it was discovered early on that he was what we call a spirit healer. He can consciously call upon spirits from the Fade to help him heal others. It's… extremely dangerous. If he falters or lets his guard down, he could easily become possessed. Not many healers follow that path. Even those born with that innate power."

"And that's different from blood magic," Fenris said dubiously. It didn't sound that way to him.

"There are no deals made with demons. Spirits and demons aren't like people, who are shades of grey from good to evil. Just as there are demons in the Fade that prey upon our sins and weaknesses – Sloth, Desire, Rage, et cetera – there are spirits who embody our virtues. Compassion and fortitude and faith."

"And Anders can… borrow from these spirits to help him heal others?"

Karl nodded.

"What… happened to his Crusader?"

Karl frowned, hesitating before he spoke. "I'm sure you've heard others speak of him. Justice. He was a… special case. A boy called Kristoff, who was very young, somehow became entwined with a spirit of Justice from the Fade. The Chantry deemed him abomination and sentenced him to death. The Church saved his life, and Divine Beatrix herself agreed that the boy should be given a chance to prove himself. He became a teacher for the Crusaders, and those who were sensitive to the Fade, those with the talent, learned to become Spirit Warriors. Much the same as a Spirit Healer. As you can likely imagine, Justice and Anders were a formidable team."

"Justice… he died fighting the archdemon."

Karl nodded sadly, his expression changing from careful scholar to tired old man, eyes lidding, the corners of his mouth drooping a bit. He sighed. "I think that's enough for tonight. These are your letters," he said. "I've put them in alphabetical order, then separated out the vowels. You have quill and parchment and ink?"

"Yes," Fenris said, and understood that he hadn't offended, simply that Karl wished to speak no longer on the subject. He would have to ask either Hawke or Bethany for more information. It seemed that this Anders had suffered quite a bit. Perhaps it was understandable why he would want to leave. Then again, Fenris had spent years running, and was just now starting to understand that friendship could be a good thing.

"Practice your letters and the few words I've written. That's your name," he said, pointing at the clearly printed word.

"Thank you," Fenris said graciously, and stood when Karl did, allowing himself to be walked out.

"And Fenris."

"Yes?"

Karl smiled. "Remember what I said. This stays between us. Out of respect for Anders."

"I understand. Good night, Enchanter."

"Good night, Fenris."

The door closed, and Fenris headed back to his room, clutching the precious papers in his hand. He would have a lot to practice, and a lot to think about.


	4. Chapter 4

Dagna avoided him the next day. He didn't approach her, not wanting her to feel cornered, but pulled Hawke aside shortly after supper. They stood awkwardly near the doorway of the commons, Hawke looking down at him with a raised eyebrow.

Fenris shifted uncomfortably. "I spoke to Dagna about…"

"Ah," Hawke said, understanding at once. "That explains why she didn't sit with us at breakfast. I wouldn't worry about it."

Fenris frowned. How could Hawke be so flippant? "She seemed upset."

"Of course she's upset. Rejection hurts. I should know. Got my heart broken more than a few times." He clapped Fenris on the arm.

Fenris winced. "Perhaps… Bethany could speak with her? I do still wish to be friends with her. If she permits it."

"Fenris, she's a woman."

"Yes?" He wasn't sure what Hawke meant by that, or if he was supposed to understand, as if they had a secret code because they were men.

Hawke laughed. "You really aren't very in touch with the fairer sex, are you?"

Fenris scowled. Aside from the handful of women he'd met in the Fog Warriors, the only one he was familiar with was Hadriana, an apprentice of Danarius's. And she was unpleasant enough that he'd never felt the need to know any more. Not that he believed all women were like her, but subtle nuances between men and women were lost on him. Danarius never took a wife as long as Fenris had known him, though there was talk about a son of his living in Qarinus. He was said to be older than Fenris, and Fenris always assumed Danarius fathered him before he lost his memories. Perhaps his wife – if he'd even had one – died before Fenris came to Danarius's employ. Or maybe Fenris had known the woman, and simply couldn't remember. After all, the first twelve years or so of his life were simply gone.

"What are you boys conspiring about?" Bethany asked, coming over. She touched Fenris gently on the elbow.

The same fluttering in his stomach he'd felt the day before resurfaced, and Fenris tried to viciously tamp down on it. He noticed the slight crinkles at the corners of her eyes as she smiled, and the faint herbal scent of the soap she used. He was only glad that there was no embarrassing heat in his cheeks, and was fairly certain he wasn't blushing. Was this how Dagna felt about him when he was close to her? Regardless, he'd meant what he said. He wasn't interested in looking for romance. He was here to perform a duty.

"Fenris shot Dagna down," Hawke said abruptly.

Bethany scowled. "I'm sure he was a gentleman about it. Unlike you would've been," she added, before turning to Fenris. "How did she take it? Is that why she wasn't around today?"

"Presumably," Fenris muttered. His arm tingled slightly where she'd touched it, and he wondered how much of it was due to her magic and how much of it was due to whatever idiotic feelings he was starting to cultivate toward her. "I was as gentle as I could be. I assume I did not offend, however…"

"Poor girl," Bethany said sympathetically. "Do you want me to talk to her?"

"I… er… Please. If you would," Fenris added, feeling awkward. "I had no desire to hurt her."

Bethany touched him again, and he wished she wouldn't. She promised him she'd speak to Dagna, gave Hawke a look, and left. Fenris kept his eyes trained firmly on Hawke's boots, refusing to look toward Bethany, lest he give something away.

"Ah women," Hawke sighed. "Can't live with them, et cetera."

Fenris scoffed. "Have you never felt romantic affection for anyone?"

"Oh here and there," Hawke admitted. "Mostly I'm too busy beating people off of Bethany with a stick, though. She's too nice for her own good sometimes. And they can't take a subtle hint."

"I see."

Even if Fenris were to entertain any type of relationship with Bethany, it would seem that Hawke would have something to say about it first. It did make sense. She was a sweet girl, and he could easily see why someone would feel inclined to want to be near her. But then, Hawke was similar. Tall and broad and capable with an easy nature. People flocked to him. He was rather good-looking as well. Fenris shook his head. It was too easy to become sidetracked in this place.

"I've things to attend to."

Karl had invited him back to his office that evening for another lesson. Fenris was eager to show him the practicing he'd done. His letters weren't perfect, but he'd studied hard. A quill was just another tool he needed to learn how to use, like wielding a blade or throwing a knife. His hand cramped after the first hour, but he pressed on. And during Karl's class, he wrote his name perhaps a hundred times until it looked close to Karl's handwriting. Some of his letters were still lopsided, but he thought they were legible enough for passing. He would, of course, need more practice. Learning to read and write was more exhausting than swinging a sword from dawn until dusk.

"You never stick around for cards," Hawke said accusingly. "At this rate, you're not going to make any new friends."

Fenris scowled. "I've enough trouble keeping the ones I've made."

"Dagna will be fine," Hawke assured him. "Bethany will talk to her, they'll have a girls' night painting their toenails or whatever and she'll be talking to you in the morning. Stay and have a drink with me. I'm only here for another day. We ship out the morning after tomorrow."

"I didn't think you were leaving for another few days," Fenris said, somewhat concerned. Though he'd often been on his own, the prospect of being contained in the holdfast while Hawke and Bethany left was slightly terrifying. He knew he could handle himself, but other than Dagna and Karl, he hadn't really met anyone else. He'd been avoiding speaking to his bunkmates, and they made no attempt to talk to him other than to acknowledge his presence. He assumed that they knew no more what to make of him than he of them.

"Orders change," Hawke shrugged. "Not sure how long we'll be in Denerim. But I'll write to you. And we'll be back for the First Day celebration. The Commander likes to recall everyone he can for a census. And who knows. Maybe if we get Denerim back to its former glory, the new Circle will be built there. Wouldn't that be a kick in the Chantry's teeth?" He grinned.

Fenris let out a soft chuckle. "Yes. I suppose." And perhaps by the time Hawke did write to him, Fenris would be able to read the letter without assistance. And maybe even write back to him with proper handwriting.

"Don't worry. I'll say goodbye before I go," he said, clapping Fenris on the shoulder. "Well, go enjoy your armor polishing or whatever the hell it is you do when you're being anti-social."

Fenris watched him return to the card game that was starting, pleased somewhat when two of the Crusaders – men he'd helped with their sword work – waved him over. He lifted a hand but shook his head and left, walking to his room to retrieve the papers he'd worked so hard on. Opening the door, he stopped on the threshold. Two of his roommates were there. He recognized the ruddy haired rogue as someone he'd helped with his knives. The blond, however, he only knew because he'd seen him in here before. He'd forgotten both their names. The red-haired man was holding two pieces of paper that Fenris instantly recognized as his practice sheets. He felt the heat rising in his face, fists clenched.

"Oh," the red-haired man said, looking somewhat embarrassed. "It's… not what it looks like, Fenris. Sorry." He thrust the papers at him.

Fenris took them, scowling, and smoothed them out. He retrieved the book Karl had given him to try to practice reading on his own. "What were you doing in my things?" he asked, tucking the papers in the book.

"I was looking for armor polish," said the man apologetically. "They fell out and-"

"Can't you read?" the blond asked, with no hint of remorse in his tone.

"Mason!" The red-haired man was frowning, glaring at his friend.

Fenris clenched the book in his hand, eyes steady on Mason. "Are you asking or confirming what you and your dull-witted companion have already surmised from rifling through my possessions?"

"It was an accident-"

"Shut up, Phillip."

Phillip. That was the man's name. Regardless of the assistance he'd given Phillip, it seemed that he was more than willing to do what Mason told him. He sat, mouth closed, looking down at the floor. Fenris glared at him. Even if it had been an accident, the man's silence now spoke volumes about his true feelings.

"So not only a dirty knife-ear that they let into the Crusaders, but you're dumb as well. Can't read or write, with stupid Dalish tattoos. And the company you keep, hanging around that dwarf bitch-"

Fenris felt the man's jaw crack as he landed the first punch. The anger he felt at being insulted and belittled compounded with the lack of support from Phillip was infuriating, but the insult to Dagna was his breaking point. Mason stumbled back, but Fenris was already in a fighting stance, crouched low, his markings flaring to light. Phillip had seen them before in training, though Fenris largely tried not to use them. He didn't want to have to explain what they were, where they came from. Many like Mason, being completely ignorant of elven culture, had incorrectly believed them to be vallaslin. None of the Crusaders, however, knew truly what he was capable of. And when Mason threw himself forward, Fenris phased his fist into the man's chest.

"What the fuck-" Phillip started, and backed away as much as the small room would let him.

Mason froze, the feeling of a ghost-like fist in his chest extremely startling and terribly unpleasant. He stepped back, but Fenris matched him pace for pace until there was nowhere else for him to go, his back pressed against the wall. He looked at Fenris, eyes wide. "What in the name of Andraste-"

"Call upon the Maker or his bride, neither can assist you now." Fenris solidified his fist a little, enough to cause excruciating pain, before phasing it again quickly.

The howl Mason let out likely could've been heard down to the commons. Phillip ran, not looking back. Mason crumpled to the ground and Fenris knelt, keeping his fist in his chest, looking at him eye to eye.

"Insult one of my friends again, and I will not hesitate to rip your still-beating heart from your chest. Do you understand, shemlen?" he spat, using a word he rarely spoke. Slaves in Tevinter were beaten for less. None of them dared called their human masters such a thing.

"What… what the fuck are you?" Mason whimpered, pressing himself as hard as he could against the wall.

Fenris pulled his fist back, out of Mason's chest. It was slightly bloody. Scowling, he stood, then throwing his weight behind it, punched him again in the face. The door slammed open, bouncing back off its hinges. Mason was groaning, holding his broken and bloodied nose, and Fenris turned in time just as he was hit with a spell. Before he could register what was happening, he was off his feet and thrown across the small room, book flying from his hand as he smacked against the wall. It was the first time magic had been used against him in some time, and he forgot the agony it brought, his brandings feeling as if they were on fire.

"Just what the hell is going on?"

Fenris, dazed, tried to catch his breath as Mason scrambled to his feet. An assessment of himself, and Fenris realized he had no life-threatening injuries, just bruises and the lingering aches of his lyrium brands. Glancing over he recognized Anders, the mage that was with Karl in the library. He looked livid. Fenris wondered briefly what kind of rank the mage could pull over someone like Mason, when the other Crusader started to speak.

"It was that knife-ear-"

A ball of flame appeared in Anders' hand, but he didn't fling it at Mason. Still, the threat worked, and Mason shut up immediately.

"Again. Without the racist remarks," Anders said evenly.

Fenris slowly got to his feet, wincing, and saw Phillip behind Anders. The man must've run for the nearest authority and found Anders along the way.

"You ain't my commander," Mason spat. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

Anders stepped up to him slowly, ball of flame still in hand. Mason stepped back. Though Anders was tall for a human, Mason towered over him. However, Fenris could tell who was winning in the intimidation factor. He knew what mages were capable of and Anders, despite being a spirit healer, looked as though he could hold his own with battle magic as well.

"You were a templar until recently, weren't you?" Anders asked, his voice the same neutral tone. "I remember. You came in on the last group recruitment. You haven't been assigned to a mage yet. Well let me tell you something, _templar_ ," he spat, and the way he said the word, it sounded a million times nastier than _knife-ear_ or _shemlen_. To Fenris, it was akin to hearing the words 'dog shit on my shoe'. "This is not how things are run in the Church's Circle. And if you have a problem with that, you can run your pathetic, bullying ass and your large, overgrown ego back to Kinloch Hold. Do I make myself clear?"

Mason scowled, but eyed the fireball. It fizzled out and was replaced by crackling electricity.

"Do I?" Anders pressed.

"Yes," Mason growled.

"Go report to Commander Greagoir," Anders said, stepping aside. "I'll be there to let him know exactly how you welcome new recruits."

Mason left, glaring at Fenris, who bent to pick up his book.

"As for you," Anders said, turning to address Fenris.

Fenris frowned, not meeting his eye. He winced as Anders approached. His markings flared automatically and he turned his head, looking down. It was a conditioned response to a mage and their magic, one he wanted so desperately to rid himself of. Thankfully, Anders lowered his hand, the electricity dissipating. Fenris looked at him now, eyes narrowed, glaring.

"Just because you're pissed off, even if he deserved it, you have no right to do… whatever it is you were doing to him."

"Mason goaded him," Phillip was saying.

"Shut your mouth!" Fenris snapped. "You sat there and did nothing. You're just a coward!"

Phillip frowned but said nothing, and left quickly. Fenris looked at Anders, whose expression had slipped from annoyance to… concern? Whatever it was, it had lasted but a fleeting second and was firmly back to irritation and anger.

"Go to Greagoir. He'll want to hear both sides of the story. Can't trust the word of a templar, after all." He paused as he turned. "You're the one Hawke brought in."

"How many other elves with lyrium brandings in their skin do you know of in this holdfast, mage?" The sarcasm spilled from his mouth before he could stop himself. Not that he felt any inclination to be friendly to the man who'd just flung him across the room.

Anders scowled. "No accounting for taste, I guess. Perhaps Hawke sees something in you that isn't so readily apparent by your demeanor."

Fenris flexed the fingers of his free hand, itching to punch this mage in the face just as he'd done Mason. Anders let out a derisive snort, turned on his heel, and left. Fenris seethed. The only satisfaction he had was that he'd left Mason's face a bloody mess and put the fear of the Maker into him. He had half a mind to skip Greagoir's office and go see Karl, to keep the appointment he made with him. But he thought perhaps it would be worse if he couldn't tell his own side of the story. Resigned to having to make Karl wait, he gathered his materials he would need for his lesson, and went to Greagoir's office.

The door was already open, Mason talking animatedly through a broken and bloody nose. Greagoir was standing, his hand up, trying to get him to be quiet. He looked past him somewhat dismissively when he saw Fenris, frowning behind his salt and pepper beard.

"Shut up!" Greagoir snarled at Mason, clearly out of patience. "Sit!"

Mason turned, saw Fenris, scowled under the bloodied rag he had pressed to his face, but fell heavily into a chair. Greagoir gestured Fenris inside and pointed to the chair next to Mason. Fenris noticed that the one he'd demolished a few days ago had been replaced. Though he had no desire to be anywhere in the vicinity of Mason, he followed the clear order. It wouldn't be smart to challenge Greagoir. Fenris had correctly pinned him as a man who didn't like having his authority questioned, and he knew how to handle men like him, largely in part thanks to Danarius.

"Now," Greagoir said, sitting. He looked to Fenris. "Explain."

"You're going to let him talk first!" Mason complained, though his nose was so swollen now, his voice was muted and nasally, sounding as if he'd had a sinus infection.

"Shut. Up," Greagoir snarled before looking to Fenris. "Talk."

"I returned to the room after supper to find that my roommates were going through my things. It would have stopped at a simple misunderstanding between Phillip and myself. Then Mason took it upon himself to insult my race, my markings, and my…" He frowned, gritting his teeth. "Illiteracy," he ground out.

Mason snorted, then winced. Greagoir shot a glare at him before looking back to Fenris.

Fenris continued. "He insulted my friends as well, and I could no longer stand to listen. So I hit him."

"You did more than that, you-"

"That's enough!" Greagoir snapped. "Mason, your version?"

"This little bastard sucker punches me, then he puts his fist literally into my chest, Commander. He's some kind of demon, I swear to Andraste-"

Greagoir held up a hand. "Anything to add to how the fight started?"

Mason sputtered. "Well, I… I was… it…"

A quick knock on the open door made them all look over. Anders was standing, framed in the doorway. Greagoir waved him in.

"Commander."

"I take it you've something to add to this?" Greagoir asked tiredly, sitting back in his chair. "As if we don't have enough things to worry about, we have to add petty squabbles to the list."

"I'm inclined to agree with you, Commander," Anders said, arms crossed. "But perhaps you should screen your applicants more closely. Mason is still registered under the West Hill Chantry as a templar. I just checked the records before coming up to see you."

"So they haven't processed my paperwork yet," Mason growled.

Fenris frowned, wondering what that meant. He also wondered if he could leave, considering the conversation no longer seemed to be about his fight, and he'd told his part.

"It's been six months," Anders said idly. "I know the Chantry favors sloth over action but even for them this is a little slow. The rest in your recruitment wave aren't mentioned anywhere in the registries. That's a little odd. Wouldn't you say, Commander?"

Greagoir's expression went from tired to interest. He sat up a bit straighter, looking at Mason with scrutiny. Anders was now smirking.

"Fenris, you can go. Anders, take care of Mason's face for me."

"I'm not sure all the magic in the world can fix that unsightly thing," Anders said, and turned, leaving without bothering to heal Mason.

Fenris didn't hesitate. It seemed he wasn't going to be reprimanded, so he left quickly. He saw Anders retreating down the hall and considered calling out to him, but stopped. He had nothing to say to the mage, and had no wish for an argument. They hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms and he doubted that Anders' defense of him was anything more than the mage wanting to oust Mason. Not that Fenris blamed him. His head spun a little as he thought of the implications of Mason still being a templar. Was he here to infiltrate the Crusaders? To find out secrets? As far as Fenris had seen, their tactics weren't very different than any other military force. Why would the Chantry want to spy on the Circle? If that was even the case.

It was for Greagoir to find out, he supposed. He waited until Anders disappeared around the corner before taking the path to Karl's office. The papers he'd worked so hard on the previous night and through the day were largely untouched. The ink had dried prior to Mason's handling, and the only smudges were the ones Fenris had made himself. His fingers were still slightly stained despite his scrubbing before supper.

"Come," Karl said, as Fenris knocked on the partially opened door.

Fenris stepped in and shut it behind him, barely returning the smile that Karl offered. He sat awkwardly across from him and set the book down, nudging it, somewhat like a dog offering its master a prized catch from its latest hunt. The smile broadened on Karl's face as he pulled the book and papers toward him, looking them over.

"I thought perhaps you weren't going to come."

"There was an incident."

Karl looked up expectantly. Fenris disliked the coolness in his eyes. He didn't have to explain himself to Karl. Karl was just a mage, an enchanter. He, Fenris, was a Crusader. He reported to Commander Greagoir, and he'd already said his piece.

"I see," Karl said, once it was clear Fenris wasn't going to say more on the subject. "Either way, I'm glad you're here now. You're already making quite a bit of progress. Are you right-handed or left-handed?"

Fenris lifted his right hand. "For sword-work and shooting a bow," he said. He lifted his left. "For throwing knives."

Karl nodded. "And to write?"

"I used my right hand."

Karl moved his chair around to settle next to Fenris as he had the previous night. "I want you to try with both hands today, see which feels more natural."

The lesson continued, Fenris paying attention to how Karl drew his letters. The one-on-one lesson reminded him of his training with the Antivan man Danarius hired to teach him how to swing a sword. Karl was much more patient however, and when Fenris stumbled on his words, he didn't receive a cuff to the head or even a berating curse aimed at his intelligence or lack thereof. He contemplated this difference, wondering which training method was more effective. The other Crusaders seemed to respond to Greagoir's brusqueness, Hawke's off-hand comments. Fenris wondered how many of them he'd be working closely with, considering the war was over. He'd never assisted in rebuilding a city.

"What assignments am I likely to receive?" Fenris asked, interrupting Karl abruptly.

Karl took it tactfully. "That eager to get into the field?"

"I am… used to work. Not idling." His tone was slightly apologetic, fingers curling around the top of the book he'd been holding.

Karl smiled, putting him at ease. "You and everyone else here. We're sent out in waves to different assignments. That way there's always a battalion here to defend, just in case. In addition to that, you have the enchanters like myself who are content to not go adventuring like you younger folk."

"…You are not that old."

Karl laughed. "Thank you. No, I suppose I'm not. But I was always happier surrounded by books than by forests and fields."

"You never did tell me how you came to the Church," Fenris said, marking his place in the book, closing it carefully. "Anders…" He kept the sneer from his lips, not wanting to offend Karl, who was obviously fond of the other mage. "He was in solitary, you said?"

Karl nodded. "He was." He sat back, crossing his legs, one arm draped over the back of the chair as he recalled. "He was fourteen. And when he was let out, he was… Well. I knew then I needed to get him away from the Chantry. He was Harrowed immediately-"

"Harrowed?" Fenris thought he might have heard the term somewhere, but never knew what it meant.

"The Church doesn't require it of their mages. A point which the Chantry finds detestable. However, the law that the Chantry puts forth for any mage is that they must be Harrowed before they can join the Church." He sighed, scrubbing at his beard. "It's a test to prove that the mage is strong enough to resist possession."

Fenris frowned. "They put the mage against a demon?" He'd seen magisters fall to demonic possession. Perhaps the only time in Tevinter where templars were truly of use. Abominations were not rare, though they were somewhat uncommon sights. And the magisters did not hesitate to cut their fellows down should they fall to full possession.

"Yes. The apprentice is sent to the Fade and pitted against a demon summoned by a few enchanters of the Circle. If he or she resists the temptation and survives, they're made a fully-fledged mage by the Chantry's standards."

"Anders was fourteen, and the Chantry summoned a demon for him to fight?" Fenris felt a reluctant respect for the mage.

"They did. He passed. He did quite well, actually." Karl frowned, his brow furrowing as if some long buried memory surfaced. Shaking his head, he looked back at Fenris. "I made my decision then. I wrote to First Enchanter Irving and he sent an envoy to the tower to retrieve us within a fortnight. And we've been here since. Well, in the Circle down south before it was destroyed in the Blight. There's talk of King Alistair allowing us to move to Denerim since we've sent most of our forces to assist in the rebuilding."

"Is that where I'll be sent once I'm assigned a mage?" Fenris asked. He'd seen a few cities in Thedas – Minrathous, Qarinus, Kirkwall, and Antiva City to name a few, but this was his first experience in Ferelden. The way everyone talked of Denerim, it was a sight to behold, even now.

"Perhaps. I'm on the board that advises the pairings of Crusaders to mages, but thankfully I don't have to decide where to send them. That task is left to Irving, Greagoir, and King Alistair now."

"The Church accepts input from its monarchy?" The Archon in Tevinter held power, but only if he did what the Magisterium wanted him to. Archons who didn't follow the normal ebb and flow of Tevinter politics usually found themselves assassinated.

"It always has," Karl said, nodding. "King Cailan was more hands off. He showed little interest in either Circle. With Teyrn Loghain's betrayal and the Blight forcing us north, we laid low, defended this land. King Alistair entreated our aid, though he wasn't the king then."

Fenris nodded, remembering what Hawke and Bethany said about the Grey Wardens. "And the Warden Cousland as well."

"Yes. There was a Landsmeet. Irving and Greagoir both went. The city was sacked by darkspawn, the archdemon appeared and I'm sure you've heard the rest."

"And the south," Fenris said, finding this all confusing but fascinating. "Where men were lost at… Ostagar?" he asked. "An envoy will be sent?"

Karl nodded. "There's talk of Warden Cousland going south soon to scavenge what he can from the wreckage. The Grey Wardens were all but wiped out at Ostagar. He and King Alistair are attempting to rebuild the order in Amaranthine. Sadly, this is the state of Ferelden. You didn't pick the most optimal time to join us, but we're glad for the help."

Fenris shifted uncomfortably. "It's considerably better than where I was."

A sad smile crossed Karl's lips. "I imagine so. Well, I know Greagoir understands your considerable talent. I think that you'll find yourself in the company of a mage sooner than later."

"That would be preferable."

"But you'll still practice your reading," Karl said, tapping the cover of the book.

Fenris looked down. He knew what the cover said, but only because he'd memorized it. _Ferelden Fairy Tales and Other Stories for Children_. It wasn't meant to be degrading. He understood that. And every fairy tale had its base in legend and history somewhere. The words were smaller and easier to read and sound out.

"I'll make a note that the owners of the holdfast are compensated for the book should you choose to take it with you. And I think you should."

"I can pay for it…"

"Consider it one of the perks of joining the Church," Karl said easily, winking. "I think we'll call it a night here if you don't mind."

Fenris stood at once, inclining his head a little. "Thank you."

Karl lifted a hand to touch his shoulder, but thought better of it, and instead simply pulled his chair back around to the other side of his desk. "Be sure to say good-bye before you're sent on your first assignment. And when you come back, we'll check on your progress."

"I likely won't be sent anytime soon…"

"It may happen sooner than you think. Good night, Fenris."

He accepted the dismissal, taking his papers and book with him as he went. The way Karl spoke, it made him wonder if the man knew something he didn't. Then again, if Karl was on the board of advisors for Crusader-mage matchups, perhaps he found a mage that he, Fenris, would match up well with. He felt slightly anxious at the thought. On one hand it meant getting out of the holdfast sooner than he thought. It was a welcome idea, as the walls were starting to feel a bit claustrophobic even after just a few days. On the other, being alone with an unknown mage on the road made him uneasy.

The only mage aside from Karl he'd interacted with for any length of time so far was Bethany. Neither was like the magisters in Tevinter, who only sought power and wealth. Would his partner be like either of them? He supposed he could handle it, so long as they weren't like Danarius or Hadriana. The thought of his former master rankled him. He slowed as he approached his room, wondering if Mason would be there, waiting for him. He tried the door; locked.

_Odd._

He fished the key from his pocket and unlocked it, opening it.

"Occupied!"

He shut the door quickly, smirking, feeling a slight heat in his cheeks as he relocked it. It seemed his third roommate – a tall, thin Rivaini man – had left the commons early to enjoy what was left of his remaining time with an attractive woman. His own mage partner? Fenris didn't know, nor would he ask. Chuckling, he decided to seek out Hawke instead. After all, his friends were leaving soon, with or without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra chapter early this week as a sort of present for you lovely readers because today is my wedding day, and I wanted to share how absolutely ecstatic I am with you wonderful people.
> 
> ^_^
> 
> Regularly scheduled postings of the fic will resume either Thursday or Friday this week and once a week (or more) until it's finished. <3


	5. Chapter 5

Anders heard Karl calling after him, but ignored him. He was too angry to talk to him right now. Rationally, logically, he knew it was time. He was going a bit crazy in the holdfast, simply teaching magic. Karl was _right_ , Maker damn the man. And he didn't want him to be. He wished that he could handle being cooped up behind stone walls, to deal with the everyday life and routine that came with teaching classes or administrative duties. But he couldn't. He missed the feeling of freedom. Even being on an assignment afforded him more than what the Chantry did for mages. He couldn't understand why more didn't simply convert. He would never understand it. While the Church was still a collar, it wasn't a tight noose around his neck like the Chantry. If there was a way to make the Chantry mages see…

_"If you force choice, it is not a choice."_

He heard Justice even now as he slowed in his steps, letting Karl catch up to him. A warm hand on his shoulder guiding him around, and he allowed it. Seconds later, his face was against Karl's neck, and he was crying softly. It was absurd. He was a grown man. He should be able to control his emotions better than this. The Blight was over, the archdemon was slain. Justice was a hero. Many people died. But Anders still had nightmares. Watching the archdemon lunge forward, knocking Justice to the ground, a claw piercing the Crusader cuirass. For all the good the plate metal had done, Justice might not have even been wearing anything. And the blood.

Anders never shied away from blood. It never bothered him. He was a spirit healer, used to tending to gaping wounds. He could bring anyone back from the brink of death. But as he ran to Justice, watched his body twitch and convulse and lay still, he knew there was no life to bring back. Justice was gone, simply like that, in the span of mere seconds. The archdemon died not long after, a dual attack from Aedan Cousland and King Alistair. Anders didn't see it. Everything around him was slow motion, the sounds muted as if he was hearing them through water. It was Irving who pulled him up, pulled him away from Justice's lifeless body. They needed him.

He lost count of how many wounds he healed that day, how many lives he saved. None of them were Justice. And afterward, he had a strong aversion to blood. It took weeks for him to work past it, Karl assisting when and how he could. The Church had no use for a healer who couldn't heal, after all. He'd considered several options. Tranquility. Suicide. Returning to the Chantry. But in the end, he ran away. He didn't go far or stay away for long, but he could no longer take the pitying looks, the people talking to him about Justice as if they knew him. Only Hawke, Bethany, and Karl seemed to understand. During and after punishment, they were the only ones he let close, and were still the only ones he felt even remotely comfortable with.

"You'll finally be getting out of the castle," Karl whispered soothingly, kissing the top of his head. "To go on assignment again. I swear this is good for you. You'll see."

Anders reached up, gripping the pendant that was Justice's. His link to Anders. Anders wore a silver cuff on his right bicep, its matching piece. When Justice died, he could no longer feel him through it. But he'd yet to take it off. He couldn't. There was a lot of speculation about Justice, being a spirit entwined with a human soul. Anders had never known Kristoff, the boy who gave his body to Justice. There was nothing left but a corpse after. Had Justice returned to the Fade? If he had, Anders had never seen him. He called out to him when he dreamed, traveled into the Fade when he could through the lyrium ritual. Only when Irving was concerned it was starting to affect his grip on reality did Anders finally stop.

"I don't need another Crusader, Karl," Anders said quietly, wiping his eyes. "I… I can stay an enchanter. I can continue to teach. Please."

Karl frowned. "It will be good for you," he repeated quietly. "Even if you don't believe Irving and Greagoir, believe me," he said, reaching up to brush away a tear. He kissed Anders gently. "Please. Try. For my sake. It hurts me to see you suffer like this. And if after a few months, it turns out that I grossly misjudged the situation, you know you can put in for a change."

Anders nodded slowly. He didn't want to accept it. But he knew Karl was on the board of advisors for matching Crusaders to mages for a reason. He trusted him. And while he would have been happy going with Hawke or Bethany, he knew that Irving and Greagoir fielded complaints and took accusations very seriously. If he had an issue, it would be addressed. There had been very few, if any reports of misconduct. Anders remembered all too well what the Chantry's Circle was like, templars stalking the halls, watching classes, watching everyone everywhere. Even in the mage-apprentice bathing chambers. It was a violation of privacy, of basic rights. He hated it. The Church was not a solution, not by far, but it was less oppressive and much more tolerable. At least mages in the Church were allowed to have families, even if they couldn't live in their own houses.

"I trust you," he said in the same quiet tone.

Karl hugged him again tightly. "You're leaving tonight."

"What?!"

Anders pulled back, frowning. It was one thing to have a new Crusader assigned to him. It was another to be immediately put on assignment. Perhaps if it was a trip to Denerim, but that troupe wasn't leaving until tomorrow. 

"You stormed out before Irving and Greagoir could give you the assignment. We're assisting Warden Cousland-"

"What about Denerim?" Anders demanded. If he was surrounded by people he knew well, it would certainly soften the blow of being paired with someone who was most certainly not Justice. "Why can't we go with Hawke and Bethany?"

Karl shook his head. "They have enough for now, until the next cycle of teams in a few weeks. You're being sent west."

"West? What's west? Orzammar?"

"No. Southwest, specifically. You'll make a stop in Redcliffe to resupply. There's a village in the south called Honnleath that was destroyed by darkspawn. You'll offer your aid and meet with Warden-Commander Cousland and his men there. After, he has another assignment, but I'm not sure what it is."

Anders frowned. "So we're working for the Grey Wardens again?"

"You _like_ the Warden-Commander, remember?" Karl said gently.

Anders crossed his arms, scowling, not looking at Karl. It was true. The man was easy to talk to, much like Alistair, though without the self-deprecating humor. The king didn't act like any nobleman Anders had ever met. Likely because he hadn't been raised to be a noble. And his templar training, while it was unnerving, hadn't affected him in the way it did a lot of the Crusaders that came through their doors. Greagoir soon hammered out the air of superiority that most of them seemed to have. As for Cousland, he was a quiet man, but fair. He'd lost a lot in the war as well, but wanted what was best for all of Ferelden, not just his own lands.

"I have to say goodbye to Hawke and Bethany then," he said solemnly. "I may not see them again for months."

"At most you'll be gone a few weeks and then it'll be First Day before you know it," Karl said encouragingly.

Anders both loved and hated him for that. Karl had been there for him since the beginning. He'd been his first crush, first true love. First… well, almost first everything. And when it ended, it had been Anders, not Karl who broke it off. It was a stupid thing, he realized. But he wouldn't have wanted to tie Karl to him, not when the enchanter remained in the holdfast and he was off defending the country. Karl was not a housewife, after all. And Anders, he had been enamored with Justice. A horrible crush that took him the better part of a year to shake, Justice letting him down gently, assuring him it was for the best. And it was. The crush grew into respect, and Anders realized he'd replaced his own father with Justice. Justice was the man Anders had wanted to be. Strong and confident, and willing to do whatever it took to change the world. Together they'd implemented changes even within the Church's own laws, more leniency on assignments, more leave time for mages to see their families, and quarter for children who'd come into their magic, and their families. The Church's Circle was a strict school, not a prison like the Chantry's Circle. He loved both men, still did. But as much as he loved Karl, he could never give himself fully to him. It wasn't fair for either of them. So they kept things casual, and when either needed a warm bed to crawl into, the other was there.

More often than not though, it was Anders who sought Karl out.

He sighed. "I fully expect to gorge myself on the feast and remain unconscious for three days after binge-drinking every drop of alcohol I can find."

Karl smiled. "Give your Crusader a fair try, and I promise I'll make sure you're given leave to do so."

Anders gripped his arm, kissed his cheek, then left to find Hawke and Bethany. While there were many Crusader-mage partnerships that had endured the test of time, the bonds often became strongest between family or lovers. Hawke and Bethany had one of the strongest bonds Anders knew, Hawke becoming Bethany's Crusader in the same year it was discovered she possessed the gift of magic. Since they were children practically they'd fought together, and Anders only knew of one pair more impressive. Irving and Greagoir, of course, would always hold that distinction. And while they'd never been outed as lovers, Anders was almost positive something went on behind closed doors. It was a speculation among the troops, anyway.

He stopped in the commons where others were just starting to filter in for breakfast. He made himself a cup of coffee and sat in the corner to wait, acknowledging those who bade him good morning, and bit back every sarcastic retort that wanted to surface. No one deserved his irritation, especially this early. Well, two people did, but he didn't feel like returning to Irving and Greagoir just to rail at them about his assignment. And to leave in the middle of the night was highly unusual. He expected they would change their minds before the day was out.

He visualized Thedas in his mind's eye, trying to imagine what the travel time would be. From the holdfast to Redcliffe, perhaps four or five days. They would benefit from going around the west side of Lake Calenhad, rather than try to navigate the ruins of Lothering. Despite the Blight ending, there was the matter of roaming packs of darkspawn still topside. If it had been he and Justice, Anders wouldn't have hesitated. But what if his new Crusader was fresh out of recruiting? If he'd never held a sword in his life before now? Anders didn't want to take that chance. The only thing worse would be if the Crusader still held his templar mentality. But then, Karl would know better than to pair him with someone like that.

When Hawke entered, Anders immediately waved him over. He smirked as Hawke stumbled first to get his own cup of coffee and a plate of bacon before dropping into a seat across from him. Anders knew better than to say anything to him until he had at least a bit of food. They sat in silence, or almost silence as Hawke crunched on his bacon, and he even offered Anders the last piece.

"Thank you. Good now?" Anders asked, popping the bacon into his mouth.

"Ngh," Hawke replied. "What's up?"

"I'm being forced to babysit a Crusader. No offense to you, of course."

Hawke shrugged, then perhaps realizing what Anders said, looked up suddenly. "They finally assigned someone to you? And you said yes?"

Anders sighed and leaned forward, cupping his mug between his hands. "I can't idle around here anymore. I'm afraid one day I'm simply going to snap on the apprentices."

"Call them all a bunch of jabbering morons and run around the holdfast in your smallclothes screaming about idiocy?"

Anders laughed; he did like that about Hawke. He could always count on him to make light of a situation and make him feel better. "You're confusing me with our dear king. Who, by the way, you need to say hello to for me. I won't be going to Denerim."

"So they gave you a Crusader and an assignment already. Who and where?"

Anders shook his head. "I don't know the 'who' yet. I suppose I'll be meeting them soon enough. And the where… a village called Honnleath in the south. Apparently it was overrun by darkspawn, and Cousland wants someone from the Church there to look at it."

"Sounds dull as paint," Hawke said sympathetically, sipping his coffee.

"It gets me out of here though." It was funny. An hour ago, Anders would have sworn he had no desire to leave, that he was happy in the holdfast. While he didn't relish the prospect of having a Crusader to replace Justice, he was now eagerly anticipating leaving and getting to see the country again. Since the fall of the archdemon and returning to the Bannorn, he hadn't so much as stepped more than a few hundred feet outside the front door.

"Will you be going to Denerim after?"

Anders shrugged. "Karl says that there's another assignment after that. We'll be reporting directly to Cousland, I expect. At least I won't be alone with my Crusader."

"Cousland will likely bring his paramour."

Anders laughed. "Seriously, Hawke?"

"What?" Hawke asked, frowning.

"'Paramour'." Anders shook his head. "Honestly. He's got a name."

"Yes, but do you know it?" Hawke asked, raising an eyebrow.

Anders frowned. He didn't. He'd met the elf once or twice, had enjoyed his casual flirting and even entertained the idea of joining him and Cousland in bed when the invitation came up. But they were in the middle of a war and the battle happened soon after. Other than a few brief dalliances with Karl which were more for comfort than pleasure, Anders hadn't indulged after Justice died. Maybe it was time. He wondered idly if the invitation still stood.

"No," Anders admitted. "Do you?"

"He's Antivan. It's probably something really hard to pronounce."

"Racist," Anders laughed.

Hawke shrugged. "Hey. I'm only popular in Ferelden because of my father. You think the name 'Hawke' commands any respect outside of here? The last time I went abroad, whenever they heard my accent, they looked at me like I was the scummy ring around the bathtub."

Anders was familiar with the disdain. Ferelden _was_ a bit of a joke to the rest of Thedas, unfortunately. And he felt Hawke's frustration. His own accent was odd, mostly Ferelden though he could never shake his origins. Growing up speaking Ander, there was a slight lilt to his voice and he'd been told it sounded anything from Nevarran to Orlesian. His real name gave him away though, and he simply stuck to the nickname he'd been branded with years ago. It helped him remember his roots, lest he ever forget where he came from and how he came to the Church.

"At least the king likes you. Peas in a pod."

Bethany set her tray down, interrupting their conversation, and sat next to Anders. "You need to eat more," she said by way of greeting, and placed a plate of toast and jam in front of him.

"Hello to you too, baby sister," Hawke said, and plucked a piece of bacon from her tray before she had a chance to stop him.

"There's more," she insisted. "Perhaps you could even help cook it sometime instead of just devouring it."

"You're in a right foul mood this morning," Hawke countered. "Something happen?"

Bethany pulled an envelope from her cloak pocket and handed it to him before starting in on breakfast. Anders watched Hawke unfold it, saw his brow furrow as he read. Then Hawke passed the letter to him. He read. It was from Carver, who'd been in Redcliffe. Apparently Lady Isolde was less than happy to be housing the mage she thought caused her son to become possessed.

"This again?" Anders sighed.

He remembered, though he wasn't part of the company that had been sent to Redcliffe to aid in the war effort. Lady Isolde sent for help and the Church responded. There was a mix up with a potion and Arl Eamon fell ill. Jowan had felt terrible and remained to try to nurse him back to health. During the time, it was revealed that their son Connor had manifested magical powers. Anders heard tales of a demonic possession, knew that Irving had left for Redcliffe for several weeks, and Carver and Jowan remained stationed there to help Connor long after the other Church mages and Crusaders had left. Carver, last he heard, was helping to retrain the militia and worked closely with the army, while Jowan was teaching Connor. Isolde hadn't wanted to surrender him to the Chantry, and Anders couldn't blame her. If the Chantry found out the Church was covering it up that Connor was more or less an apostate though, it could spell trouble for all of them.

"Maybe that's why they want me to stop in Redcliffe first on my way south," Anders mused. "Regardless, hopefully I'll be able to diffuse the situation. Maybe finally convince Eamon his wife is a shrieking harpy."

Hawke laughed while Bethany scowled.

"You're going to Redcliffe?" Bethany asked. "Why?"

Anders sat back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm being given a Crusader. And apparently they're tired of me moping around here so I'm on assignment straight away. Redcliffe's our first stop."

"Ooh! Do you know who it is?" Bethany asked, her irritated demeanor giving way to excitement. "Is it Dagna?"

Anders shook his head. "If they were going to pair us they would have done already. From what it sounds like, it'll be someone from the new wave of recruits. Or maybe someone from another Circle."

Hawke snerked. "Maybe an Orlesian beauty with big-"

"Garrett!" Bethany snapped, exasperated. "Honestly."

Anders coughed, hiding a grin. Hawke was a simple man with simple pleasures, who never hesitated to speak his mind. "Anyway," he said, hoping to diffuse an argument before it began. "Lady Isolde's son needs proper training. Maybe she'll consent to coming here with him. I'll ask Irving to see if we have space enough so they don't have to be separated."

"Maker," Hawke breathed. "An overbearing mother hovering around the place. At least we're out of here tomorrow."

Bethany opened her mouth to say something, but someone across the room caught her eye. She waved. "Fenris!"

Anders glanced over and scowled. His brief meeting with the elf last night was enough for him. He stood, taking his coffee cup. "I have to speak to Irving. Come see me off when I leave."

Hawke waved at him and Anders left, carefully sidestepping Fenris who had started to approach. The elf looked as if he was going to say something to him, but Anders didn't let him get the chance. He dropped his cup in the dirty dish basin and hurried up to Irving's office. Taking a breath, he knocked on the door, waited for the order to come in, and entered. Thankfully the First Enchanter was alone. Though Anders had a tentative respect for Commander Greagoir, it was easier for him to maintain his cool without former templars in the room, no matter how far removed they were from the Order.

"Ah, Enchanter," Irving said, using his formal title likely because he knew it drove Anders crazy. "Done throwing your temper tantrum?"

Anders gritted his teeth. He chose to ignore that, though Iriving's cool gaze told him he knew he'd scored a point. "Bethany received a message from her brother today from Redcliffe."

"Mm. So I've heard," Irving said, gesturing to the chair across from him. He set his quill aside and sat up straight. "Something you wished to discuss?"

"I'd be willing to bring a message to Lady Isolde regarding rehousing her and her son here, so that he receives the proper training. That way Carver and Jowan can remain in Redcliffe to continue assisting where they can without her interference."

Irving's lips curled into a very slight smile. "It seems we've come to a similar conclusion. I was going to simply write back to her before she takes it upon herself to kick them from the castle. But if you would carry the message instead, it may hold more clout."

"From what I remember, Lady Isolde isn't a fan of mages," Anders said as Irving picked up his quill again. "Or… anyone, really."

"She won't have a choice. Either she'll allow Jowan and Carver to stay on, or she'll come here with Connor, or," he said with a sigh, scratching out a few things on the paper. "Or I'll have to write to the Chantry's Circle to let them know we've identified a mage boy."

Anders scowled. "You wouldn't. They'd tear him away from her. They'd never see one another again."

Irving looked up. "You propose a different solution than the ones presented?"

Anders thought, drumming his fingers on the arms of the chair. He had no way of knowing if Lady Isolde would give in to any of the suggestions. If she'd just let go of her anti-mage bias, they could have continued to cover up Connor's powers. The people of Redcliffe were loyal to their Arl to a fault. Even though it was Connor's demon that caused the issues in the first place, those that knew the truth kept quiet. No one wanted to be responsible for having Eamon's son taken away from him. But if Isolde didn't want Jowan there, the Church had no authority to force either her or Eamon to keep them at the castle. And while Carver could continue training the militia of Redcliffe, Jowan would no longer have access to Connor.

But notifying the Chantry? Ripping the boy from his mother's arms? Locking him up? Anders closed his eyes, remembering the feeling of those cold manacles on his wrists. He remembered the basement, though not what it looked like, just the feeling of sitting and waiting in the deep darkness. The templars dragging him away like he was some criminal. His mother sobbing. 

The Church offered something different, another option. People flocked here or to Orlais or Kirkwall. They could see their children every day, write to them, visit them. It wasn't ideal, but at least the families weren't treated like criminals. They weren't told they'd birthed a sinful creature. They were given hope. A promise that the Church would do its best to keep their son or daughter safe, to teach them how to control the frightening power, and not to fear or loathe it.

"What about King Alistair?" Anders asked. "He's related, however distantly to the boy, isn't he?" Alistair tried to explain it to him and Hawke once, and Anders knew it involved an illicit affair and sounded like even Alistair himself was confused as to how he was related to the Guerrins.

"I highly doubt the king is going to want to involve himself in a matter of the Church."

"But he might. Hawke's going that way tomorrow. Might as well ask. In the meantime, let me see if I can convince Lady Isolde to bring the boy here."

"If she disagrees, Anders," Irving said sadly, "we'll have to tell the Chantry."

"Unless," Anders said, slowly losing his patience, "King Alistair sides with us. First Enchanter, _please_." He rarely begged. But how could Irving sit there and even put forth the Chantry as an alternative when he knew what they did to mage children?

Irving sighed, sitting back. He steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips, looking at Anders, who'd leaned forward imploringly.

"Please," Anders said again. "No mother wants their child taken from them. She'll see reason. One way or another."

Irving closed his eyes briefly before opening them with another sigh. "All right. I expect a return letter as quickly as you can. And I'll not contact the Chantry until I have an answer."

Relief flooded through him, and Anders pursed his lips, nodding. "I promise I'll make this work."

"Go on then. I'm sure you still need to pack."

Anders stood, and stopped in the doorway when Irving called his name. He turned.

"Are you going to take your cat?"

Anders grinned. "Of course."

Irving shook his head somewhat exasperatedly and waved him out. Anders went, jogging up to the small room that he'd shared with Justice. He always left the door open a crack, giving Ser Pounce-a-lot free reign of the holdfast. The owners loved it, as Ser Pounce-a-lot was an accomplished mouser. Of course this meant that Anders had to dispose of the carcasses that his cat continued to drop on his threshold. Justice had found it singularly annoying, at least until Anders explained that it was all part of the natural order of things, and there was no greater source of justice than Mother Nature herself.

He merely kicked aside the dead mice this time however as he let himself into the room. Ser Pounce-a-lot was curled up on his bed, having already visited the commons to scrounge for leftover bacon and sausage. Anders scratched him behind the ears before pulling his pack from the armoire he shared with Justice. Frowning, he reached up and touched one of the tunics still hanging there. Justice had no family, so there was no one to send his things to. He'd been buried in his armor with his shield and sword, but the rest of his belongings were still here in this tiny room.

Anders looked at the still-made bed, looking exactly as it had been the day before they left for Denerim. Ser Pounce-a-lot hid underneath it at times, but never hopped on top, knowing that Justice hated cat hair in his bed and would scold him. The few days after Anders returned from the capital, Ser Pounce-a-lot didn't seem to understand where Justice was, and though the cat was above average in his intelligence, it was impossible to say if Anders' explanation made sense. He did, however, curl up with Anders more often since it happened.

"We're leaving tonight," he announced to the cat, who merely stretched and yawned and rolled over onto his back, expecting pettings. "You ready for an adventure?"

He packed the essentials along with a blank journal, ink and quill. Though he'd never attempted to sell his memoirs, Justice insisted he write them all down. He'd gotten into the habit, and kept a journal no matter where he was or what he was doing. Though he'd filled dozens of pages after Justice died, he was hesitant to reread them. He'd been horribly depressed and had no desire to revisit those feelings of hopelessness. Part of him wanted to burn them, but doing so wouldn't erase the feelings. It wouldn't bring Justice back. So they remained packed in the false bottom of the cedar chest at the foot of his bed.

Checking, then double-checking his things, Anders buckled his pack and then scooped up Ser Pounce-a-lot, setting him on his shoulders. Saying goodbye to his friends was a bit more difficult than he thought it would be. He dropped by the classrooms and the training rooms, making idle conversation with a few. They wished him well, congratulated him on the assignment. He sought out Karl next, knowing the man would be there to see him off later, but wanting to tell him goodbye in private.

"Busy?" Anders asked, peeking into the cracked open door.

Karl glanced up and waved him in. An empty coffee mug and a plate with a half-finished sandwich sat on the corner of his desk. He was shuffling papers, but pushed them aside when Anders strode in.

"Feeling better?" Karl asked, smiling softly. He reached up to pet Ser Pounce-a-lot, who purred at the attention.

Anders sat heavily at his feet, leaning his head against Karl's thigh. Ser Pounce-a-lot leapt lightly up to the desk, found a corner not covered in papers, and curled up. Anders sighed as he felt Karl's hand in his hair.

"Yes and no. It's not as if I mind leaving. I just… miss Justice."

"I know," Karl soothed.

They sat in silence for a while, Anders tilting his head this way and that so Karl could scratch at his scalp or run his fingertips over his neck. Next to Justice, Karl was the closest thing to family that Anders truly had. The best thing about Karl, Anders thought, was that he knew when to talk and when not to. No words needed to be spoken here, and Anders simply took the offered comfort. Karl's free hand resumed the scratching of quill to parchment, and Anders let his mind wander, eyes closed.

An interrupting knock on the door, and Anders opened one eye, though he couldn't see past the desk. Karl looked up.

"I was looking for Anders."

Hawke's voice.

"But I can see he's busy."

Hawke being a pervert.

Anders sat up straight before standing, and stretched. "Don't be crude, Hawke."

Ser Pounce-a-lot hopped from the desk and wound around Hawke's legs.

Hawke grinned and leaned down to scratch him gently. "Greagoir sent me to find you. I figured you'd be here. They want to send you sooner than later so you still have some daylight left to travel by."

Anders nodded, figuring that would be the case. He looked at Karl. "Come with me to get my stuff, then see me off?"

"Of course."

Karl capped the ink bottle and took up his cloak, following them out. Anders scooped up Ser Pounce-a-lot and upon entering his room, retrieved his pack, and tucked the cat carefully inside one of the pouches.

"You're not as little as you used to be," Anders noted.

Ser Pounce-a-lot let out a pitying mewl, but settled quite happily, purring. Anders laughed, pulled on his winter cloak, and slung the pack over his shoulder, taking up his staff. With one last look back at Justice's neatly made bed, he followed Karl and Hawke down to the front doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week's chapter might be a little late as I'll be on vacation for the week, followed by an anime convention. If it's not up by Friday/Saturday, Monday morning at the latest. The first part of the story is ALMOST done being written and the second part's outline is in the works. Thanks for sticking with me, guys. ^_^


	6. Chapter 6

"Well you could cut this tension with a knife, it's so bloody thick," Hawke joked, wincing as Bethany jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

Fenris and Anders stared at one another. They were gathered in the entrance hall of the holdfast along with Karl, Sandal and his father, Irving, and Greagoir. Sandal was holding two small boxes, their linked jewelry no doubt. Bodahn had a hand on his shoulder, proud of his boy, but also aware of the blatant animosity Anders and Fenris seemed to have for one another. Both Crusader and mage had come to the same conclusion at once, and neither could believe it. 

Anders turned to Karl, scowling. "Are you serious?"

Karl raised an eyebrow. "You promised. And you said you trusted me."

"I do, but…" He grabbed Karl's arm and dragged him some feet away to have a quiet, terse argument. 

Irving's lips were pursed into an amused almost-smile, while Greagoir massaged his forehead with one large hand, the beginnings of a headache starting to form. Fenris looked to him first, then to Irving, and kept his silence. It wouldn't do to argue the point. Greagoir and Irving both would likely have some counter-argument. And he could hardly request a change now as they were about to leave on assignment. Besides that, he didn't want to appear ungrateful. Some Crusader recruits took months before they were assigned a mage, and he'd been given one in barely a week. Hawke clapped him on the back, grinning.

Fenris looked at him. "No doubt you wish me to carry a message to your brother."

"Just tell him to be patient," Bethany implored him.

He nodded, keeping his flinching to a minimum as she touched his wrist. At least his time away from her and the holdfast would make it easier to distance and potentially put a stop on his growing feelings for her. His eyes slid over to Anders and Karl. Surely Karl must have heard the details of his confrontation with Anders, even if Fenris hadn't given them to him. And if not, it sounded as if Anders might be explaining it now. Well, it was certainly too late for anyone to change their minds now. He felt singularly unprepared for this. Not only because of the fact that he would be traveling with an antagonistic mage, though that was one of the factors, but because he'd only just been recruited. However, he had managed to grasp the basics of several techniques in the few short days he'd been there. Cleanses, silences, templar abilities. Though he doubted he would have a chance to practice on Anders. He wondered what the man would be like in Tevinter, if he would applaud the mageocracy.

"Enchantment?" Sandal asked Bodahn, still holding the packages.

Bodahn looked to Irving, who nodded, and Fenris took the proffered box. With a slight frown, he opened it and removed a wrist cuff. It was roughly an inch thick, made of silver, with an intricate circular design carved into it. His markings flared dully and he felt their fire through his skin as his thumb brushed over the design. In the very center was a sword crossed with a staff, the symbol of the Church.

"We thought this would be best," Irving explained. "A ring would get in the way of your sword work. Most elves find earrings disagreeable, and a necklace…" He trailed off, falling silent.

Fenris frowned. Though Greagoir and Irving had no way of knowing what he'd been through as a slave, he very much disliked having anything around his neck. Danarius rarely collared him, rarely needed to, but there was still the fact that he had. He appreciated the courtesy, muttered his thanks, and slid the cuff onto his wrist. There was only one, thankfully, so it did not feel like a manacle, and was warm to the touch. The only irritating thing about it was how it made his markings thrum.

Anders returned with Karl, looking resigned. He took the box that Sandal held out to him, giving the dwarf a meager smile as he opened it. An engraved silver hoop earring sat in the palm of his hand, and he looked it over.

"Very nice work, Sandal. Well done," he said sincerely.

Sandal grinned broadly, and Bodahn beamed. Anders handed the earring to Karl, then pulled back his hair to remove the gold hoop already there. Fenris looked away uncomfortably as Karl helped him put in the new one. It seemed an oddly intimate moment to him.

"Mine's cooler," Hawke noted.

Anders laughed, reaching up to touch the silver hoop that now adorned his ear. "Yes. I suppose it is."

Fenris watched as Anders hugged Hawke and tamped down the flare of jealousy he felt when he moved to Bethany. He clapped Sandal on the shoulder and shook Bodahn, Irving, and Greagoir's hands. Was this normal for parting on an assignment? Or were they simply a special case? How often were mage-Crusader teams sent out by themselves? Was Anders exceptional in his battle prowess, or was this assignment just horribly dull?

Fenris found himself shaking hands with Irving and Greagoir, and couldn't help the blush in his cheeks as Bethany embraced him tightly.

"You'll be brilliant," she whispered in his ear.

He said nothing, not looking her in the eye as she released him. Hawke clapped him on the back once again. He found he was quite used to it, and thought he'd definitely miss the man and his almost larger-than-life personality.

"Wait!"

They turned as a group to see Dagna jogging up. Fenris felt both relief and anxiety in one rush. She hadn't spoken to him since he'd turned her down, though Bethany assured him that she would be fine. He thought he wouldn't have a chance to speak with her until after they returned from assignment, not knowing if it would be okay to seek her out just yet.

"Can we… um," she started, panting a little, embarrassed as everyone in the group was looking at her.

Fenris looked at Greagoir, as he was his direct superior. "I'll be just a moment, Commander."

Greagoir nodded, and Fenris gestured. They moved away from the group, though Fenris could feel their eyes on his back still. Dagna smiled at him, and he relaxed, returning it carefully. She pushed a book into his hands.

"It's regarding magical theory. Where magic comes from, its roots. It's all very scientific. I thought perhaps you'd like it. Though no one _really_ knows when magic first manifested, it's a collection of articles and papers from scientific minds and there's even a point of view from the religious sects as well and I really think that maybe knowing where magic comes from will help you understand it a bit better and maybe you won't hate it so much anymore if you understood the history."

He watched her sway a little on her heels, saw her bite her lower lip, and at once felt grateful for her friendship. He looked down at the cover. The book was very handsome with its leather binding and fancy lettering. He touched the title, silently sounding it out. No doubt it would take him a long while to get through it, as it looked much more difficult than the book of fairy tales he had in his pack. Still, the gesture behind it was touching, and it was clear that Dagna did not hate him for what he'd said. He smiled genuinely.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "You… are… You are a very good friend, Dagna. I shall miss you."

"Will you write me?"

"Of course," he said, and meant it. If it took him ages to write even a paragraph, he would.

Impulsively, he leaned down and kissed her cheek, and she blushed, looking pleased with herself. She turned to the group, most of who were looking away politely, and rushed over to hug Anders goodbye before taking her leave, giving Fenris one last look as she turned the corner. Fenris tucked the book into his pack and returned to the others. Hawke winked at him rather obviously, causing him to duck his head and scowl.

"Good luck, Fenris," Karl said warmly, offering his hand.

Fenris saw the frown on Anders' face as he shook hands. "Thank you, Enchanter. I'll write."

"I'll be expecting it," Karl said. "From both of you."

Hawke opened the door, a gust of chilly wind blowing into the entrance hall, causing the fire in the pit in the center of the room to flicker. Fenris pulled up the hood of his cloak. He'd been instructed by both Bethany and Hawke to dress warmly. He remembered the trek down from the port city, how cold his feet had been. And while it was awkward now to wear boots, it would be more awkward to suffer frost bite on the way. He stepped outside, waiting as Anders said one last tender goodbye to Karl, Hawke wolf whistling as they did so.

The door shut, and they were alone outside in the courtyard. Fenris assumed that in the warmer months, sentries would be stationed at the doors and around the battlements. Today there were none, the yard completely empty. He followed Anders down the shoveled path, the snow merely dust on the grass. Hawke and Bethany assured him it would only grow colder and the snowfall would become deeper as the months wore on. There was no snow in Tevinter, and the winters were mild. He shivered, pulling the cloak more tightly around himself, and wondered how Fereldans could stand it.

The road out of the holdfast was level, banking hills on either side that weren't steep at all. As far as Fenris knew, this entire area was farmland, and relatively flat. When he'd received word of the assignment yesterday from Greagoir, he'd been shown a map and the route they would take around a lake named after some ancient king. He wished he'd been better versed in Ferelden history, and a part of him wanted to ask Anders, to see if the mage could tell him about it. But he wasn't like Karl, and likely wouldn't be willing to talk about history. Or anything at all. That suited Fenris fine. If Anders wished this to be a silent journey, well… Fenris had endured far, far worse than quiet travelling companions.

"We'll hit the docks of Lake Calenhad by midnight, I think," Anders said. "We'll stay at the inn there and leave in the morning. In all we should reach Redcliffe on the fourth night with two days on the road, since there are few settlements to the west of Lake Calenhad."

Fenris remembered the geography well enough. "Would it not be quicker to head south immediately from the east side?"

"No."

His tone was short, clipped. Anders clearly wasn't any happier about this arrangement than Fenris. Fenris bristled, but said nothing else. The mage was more familiar with the terrain of the land than he was, after all.

They walked in silence, Fenris looking around as they trekked the road through the fields. Most were barren, though he saw livestock paddocks, the occasional farmhouse set far back on the road. It was so flat and empty compared to most of Tevinter. In the south, closer to the Nevarran border, he recalled vast vineyards and olive orchards. A magister that Danarius was acquainted with had some of the most beautiful vineyards Fenris had ever seen. When they traveled to Solas to stay with him, Fenris was even allowed to sample the grapes from which the wine was made. They were delicious, and he remembered the sweetness on his tongue even now. He was fond of fruit in general, and thought of the two apples he had in his pack for later. 

He wondered what grew in these fields. Surely something heartier than olives and figs and grapes. Ferelden seemed to live on beef and pigs and potatoes. Their people were certainly sturdier-looking than the magisters in Tevinter, who were either tall and reedy or round and soft from their slaves doing all the work. But the mages in Ferelden, or at least the mages he found in the Church's Circle, were all fit. Not as broad as their Crusader counterparts, but certainly not fat and lazy like the magisters. Fenris found a grudging respect for the Church because of that. No one in the Church was pampered, everyone pulled their weight.

A few hours into the silent walk and Fenris grew tired and bored of glancing at the scenery. Especially as the day became more overcast, the sun setting on the horizon in front of them. It was little more than a ball-shaped cloud, light grey in color, surrounded by a sky of even darker grey. Nighttime was upon them quickly as it sank behind the mountains. Anders removed the staff from his back, knocked it once to the ground, and the tip flared to light. Fenris felt a warm thrum against his wrist and looked down, shaking his hand out of his sleeve. His lyrium lines glowed a faint bluish-white in the darkness, and the cuff around his wrist was almost hot to the touch.

"Anders."

Anders scowled. "It's normal. The more we work together, the stronger the power between the link grows. I can feel it too."

"How strong is this link?"

"Not enough to read each other's thoughts. But some teams report dream-sharing in the Fade. It acts almost as a warning signal if the other is in danger." He paused a moment, thinking of decent analogy. "Have you ever played the game 'hot or cold'?"

"No." Fenris thought perhaps it was a childhood game. If he had played it, he had no memory whatsoever.

Anders sighed, as if he was annoyed at the lack of recreation in Fenris's past. "In the game, one person hides an object and the other has to go look for it. If the person moves away from the object, the first person says 'cold' and if he moves closer, the first says 'hot.'"

"I see." Fenris had never heard of search a game, and wondered if was even played in Tevinter.

"The jewelry acts similarly," Anders continued to explain. "If we're miles apart and moving toward one another, you'll feel it. Either it'll grow warmer or hum with magical energy. It's easier to experience it than to describe it."

Fenris nodded. Hawke and Bethany had tried to explain and said fairly the same thing. He supposed he would experience it for himself eventually, perhaps even when they slept. At least he wouldn't be completely unprepared for it.

They turned south at the fork in the road, and the only illumination was the glow from Anders' staff. The sky was too overcast for moonlight, and they could scarcely see more than a few feet in front of them. Fenris shivered beneath his cloak, his breath visible in white puffs as they walked. From the corner of his eye, he saw the shadows flickering over the mage's face. He was frowning.

"Are you cold?"

Fenris scowled.

"I'm only asking, because if you freeze to death before we reach the docks, it would reflect very badly on me. I could use a spell to-"

"No!" Fenris said quickly. He ignored the look Anders gave him, curiously raised eyebrows under his hood. "I am fine."

Carefully controlled magic, mages being watched over in the holdfast by seasoned Crusaders, he could handle that. Even if the magic pulled at his markings, causing them to flare or his skin to itch or tingle. Here in the wilderness, though they couldn't be very far from the next farmhouse, allowing a mage to cast magic on him was out of the question. He knew full well what Danarius and Hadriana had been capable of. And while Anders had used magic on him before, he doubted that was even a small percentage of what he could do.

"Suit yourself," Anders said coolly.

Fenris wondered how magical power was gauged here in Ferelden. In Tevinter, it was simply a show of will. Did mages in the Church duel one another for fun? Or was it only for practice? The customs were so very different, and that was what unnerved him the most. He knew what to expect traveling down the streets of Minrathous or attending a party. Here, while he didn't care much if he offended Anders, it was easier to accidentally walk into a social faux pas.

The crunch of the ice and rock underfoot was the only sound as they passed out of the Bannorn onto the Imperial Highway. The road was elevated, paved. Fenris remembered the story of the ancient Tevinter magisters who assisted in building it. It was said that there was magic in the very stones that had been quarried from slaves in Kirkwall, and the Highway itself spanned the entire continent of Thedas. What was impressive, Fenris thought, was that while the road was in obvious disrepair, the general construction and design of it was the same here as it was outside of Minrathous. How many slaves worked on it? How many years had it taken? History beneath their very feet, and how many people took it for granted?

"So where are you from?" Anders asked, breaking the silence.

Perhaps the mage was as bored as Fenris was, with only thoughts to fill the quiet.

"I've spent most of my life in Minrathous and Seheron," Fenris said carefully. If Anders was attempting to be cordial, he could extend the courtesy.

"I've never been to Tevinter."

Fenris thought carefully of his next statement. "Your magic would be a mark of honor there."

Anders turned to glare at him. "Magic is a tool. Those who have it are no different than men who use swords to bring enemies to their knees. The only difference is that magic can save lives as well as take it away. Having it doesn't make you any more or less special than not having it."

Fenris scowled. Obviously it had not been the right thing to say. Perhaps silence was best. They could always try again, possibly when the mage wasn't going to be so touchy.

"Is that what they teach in Tevinter?" Anders pressed.

"Everyone knows this," Fenris said quietly. "The Chantry-"

"Piss on the Chantry," Anders said, cutting him off. "They live to tell the world that mages are dangerous, that they need to be feared and collared. And they fight the Church at every step. They would see us locked up in towers, kept away from our families and told we're all abominations, despite making no deals with demons. Justice was-" He stopped abruptly, and quickly changed the subject. "I've never been to Tevinter," he said again. "I expect it's quite different from Ferelden."

Fenris supposed that was his cue to tell Anders about what life was like there. He didn't, a bitter part of him unwilling to share any personal details. While Anders stated that magic was simply a tool, he was obviously proud of his ability to wield it. Apprenticed to the right magister, and Fenris thought that Anders would easily fall into the trap every mage in the Imperium eventually did. The lure of power was strong. The Church was still young, in its infancy compared to the Imperium, but given enough slack and the mages could easily turn on their Crusaders, couldn't they?

"What keeps a mage from running away from his Crusader?" he asked bluntly.

Anders' shoulders tensed under the cloak, Fenris watched him carefully, and kept up with his quick pace.

"We're still leashed," Anders said finally, sounding slightly deflated.

"The jewelry," Fenris acknowledged. "But surely that's not all. You could simply remove the earring and run."

"And just where do you think we'd run?" Anders asked coolly, glancing over at him. "Regardless of what you think of the Church, it's well aware that mages are far from free. We're simply less-collared here than with the Chantry. We can have families, but will still have to serve. Whether it's teaching other mages or fighting for the country, or going on ridiculous assignments like this one. If the Church doesn't catch us when we run away, the Chantry will."

"The Chantry's templars… they are… effective?" he asked carefully.

A snort from behind the hood, which Anders pulled closer around his face. "Effective. That's a good word for it."

Fenris frowned. "The templars in Tevinter… are little more than decoration to appease the Chantry in Orlais."

"Were you a slave in Tevinter?"

The question was abrupt and direct, and Fenris was silently glad that no one had spoken to Anders about his past. Through his conversations with Karl he'd learned about Anders, and he felt almost at an advantage over him, which emboldened him a bit. It made him feel on equal footing with him and took away some of the anxiety he felt at having to be a bodyguard yet again for another mage.

"I was." If they were going to trade barbs, at least they would both be honest.

There was no pity in Anders' tone when he spoke again, and Fenris was almost grateful for that.

"The Chantry here treats mages like slaves. Like prisoners. The templars are our jailors. Privacy is an illusion. If you step out of line, you're beaten or worse."

_Six months in solitary confinement,_ Fenris remembered.

"It's not like Tevinter here. Templars have the ultimate power. Even with our Church insignia, even though we carry identification papers, templars still try to haul us back to the Chantry Circles as apostates. Traveling with our Crusaders is the only way to make sure that doesn't happen. If we're found alone, the templar can make an argument that we were trying to run away. It's easier, of course, if we're in large groups fighting a battle or helping to rebuild parts of the country. Those in Denerim are lucky because they're also under the protection of the king. But teams like us? Like Carver and Jowan? Those they send out on single assignment? There's always a chance that the Chantry will try to swoop in and collar us, drag us back to the tower."

"But that would be against the law," Fenris noted.

Another snort. "Since when has the Chantry ever paid attention to that? Harrowed mages being forced into Tranquility despite the law." He shook his head. "Mages will only be free if someone speaks out against the injustices of the Chantry. The Church is a step in the right direction, but until I can walk outside the shadow of another without fear of being hunted or arrested, I'm not free."

Fenris thought of the Tevinter hunters. He could continue to run, but Danarius would always be there at his back, chasing him. In so many ways, he saw the parallels between himself and Anders.

"What would you do with your freedom?" Fenris asked.

"What have you done with yours?" Anders countered.

Fenris pulled the cloak tightly around himself. "I am not… I… was not given freedom."

"But you're here. You took your freedom. I think that would be better, almost, than being given it. You took it for yourself, which means more than having it handed to you." Anders glanced over at him.

Fenris hadn't thought of it that way. "On paper, though, I am still a slave."

"Who cares about that?"

Fenris felt his lip curl into a sneer. "My old master."

"Slavery is illegal in Ferelden," Anders pointed out. "If he comes for you, the Crusaders will keep you safe."

_The Crusaders._ Fenris noticed Anders hadn't included himself in that summation. He wondered if the mage would do as Hawke and Bethany had and fight for him. Or if he would take the opportunity to run and get away from the Church. All the things Hawke and Bethany and Dagna said affirmed that this was a partnership, that the Crusader looked out for his mage and vice versa. He wanted to believe it, but Anders didn't seem to like him very much, and the feeling was quite mutual.

"You did not answer my question," Fenris noted.

"I would live," Anders said. "Similarly to what I'm doing now, I suppose. If all mages were free, we wouldn't need a Church or Chantry. We would have schools and apprenticeships to make sure that other mages knew how to combat against the lure of a demon in the Fade. Similar to the Church but without the organized army. That's essentially what we are."

"Given that much freedom and mages would make themselves magisters, as they have in Tevinter," Fenris said. The Church was an alternative to the Chantry, and apostates – organized apostates – were dangerous.

"You can't possibly subscribe to that idiotic notion," Anders said.

Fenris huffed. "Isn't it true? In Tevinter, the mages are free to rule themselves. They turned all of Thedas into their kingdom, enslaving millions and-"

"That would _not_ happen!"

"But you can't say that," Fenris said, stopping as Anders did, and looked at him. "It happened once. It may again."

"Or, because mages have been subjected to their own slavery and torment for a thousand years, they would understand that slavery is wrong," Anders said adamantly, his voice raising. "I've never met a mage who wanted to rule over anyone. All we want is our freedom and to be left alone!"

Fenris crossed his arms, staring at him defiantly. "You've never met a mage with true freedom, so how can you speak for all mages and say that none of them would enslave others given the chance? Have you never met a blood mage?"

"The only blood mages I know of went to the only defense they have because they were backed into a corner! Not because they wanted the power!" Anders insisted, one hand on his hip, the other gripping his staff.

"But the power is there," Fenris pressed. "They join with demons and kill indiscriminately."

"So you think we should slice off a child's hands because he can pick up a sword?"

"No!" Fenris snapped. "You're speaking extremes!"

"And you're talking about locking up my people in a cell because of how they were born! You're an elf – most slaves are elves, are they not?"

Fenris dropped his arms to his sides, clenching his fists. "What of it?"

"Essentially you say because a person was born with magic, they're a danger to themselves and others and should be locked up because of the potential for falling to demons and blood magic. Well then you must also think it's right that elves are made slaves because they were born elven."

"That is ridiculous. Being an elf doesn't open you to demonic possession-"

"Not any more than does being a mage. I've seen people with no magical prowess whatsoever fall to demonic possession." The light in Anders' staff pulsed, the shadows flickering, hiding the top half of his face, but not his lips, which were pulled back into a sneer.

"But they cannot use that power the demons give them to slaughter innocents! They would simply become mindless abominations and no longer in control of themselves!"

Anders quickly changed tact. "So you think just because there's a potential for a mage to fall to blood magic, every single one of them should be locked away?"

Clearly, Fenris thought, as he seethed with anger, no matter what he said, Anders would fall back to this argument. "That is not the issue. The issue is that if you give mages absolute freedom, they will rise up and become magisters. There will always be a thirst for power when it comes to-"

"Anyone," Anders said, cutting him off. "Man is not infallible. Mage or not. Humans, dwarves, elves. It doesn't matter. The type of corruption you're talking about, the desire of power and the willingness to do whatever it takes to achieve that power is not a desire that is found solely in mages!"

Fenris felt like wringing his neck. Did he not understand? "But mages, especially if they join their forces, have the power to level an entire country. An entire _continent_ and make the inhabitants beg on bended knee. And they've proven already that they're willing to do just that!"

They were yelling at one another now, despite the few feet between them as they stood on almost opposite ends of the highway.

"So do armies of non-magical troops! Orlais sent legions of chevaliers into Ferelden to capture it during the occupation. That wasn't a battle that was fought solely of mages. Men, men without magic, just with a thirst for power. Should we lock up all men because of what a few have ordered?"

"If we can prevent a mage uprising-"

"No," Anders said quietly, shaking his head. "No, I won't go there. I won't let you argue that point. You're basing your entire argument on the possibility that mages might decide they'd rather rule than be locked up. Is everything so black and white with you? Is there no middle ground? Would slaves rather rule? Would you? Would you prefer to rule over your former master? Or do you just desire your freedom?"

Fenris frowned, thinking of Danarius. Rule him? No. Kill him? Yes. Him and all the other magisters. Those who so willingly collared and beat and bled his kind. And if mages were given their freedom here, there was no doubt in his mind that they would want the same against their templar jailors. Perhaps even their Crusaders. Anders certainly spoke vehemently enough against the order. Though… though there had been a fierce fondness, a love between Anders and Justice.

"Why did you never turn on your former Crusader?" Fenris asked, the anger he felt moments ago ebbing just slightly.

"What?" Anders asked, clearly taken aback by the sudden question.

But Anders couldn't answer as six shadows fell upon the little circle of light surrounding them. The light snowfall covered the footsteps of a group of bandits that now flanked them. Fenris moved toward Anders, taking a quick assessment. They all wore light leathers, and he counted two broadswords between them. Which meant the others likely had daggers and knives. His hand was already on the pommel of his sword, strapped to his back under his cloak.

"Not so fast, friend," said one of them.

The sound of metal being unsheathed and he felt the bite of the cool steel against his throat. He lowered his hand slowly. There was still the small dagger at his wrist, one in his belt and another against his ankle. But to go for any of them now would likely alert the rest of the group and end in his and Anders' swift demise. He looked at Anders, whose face was covered by the hood, two blades pointed at him.

"What's a mage doing out in the middle of the night? Running away from the tower?" one of them asked.

"Official Church of Andraste business," Anders answered easily. 

"Oh yeah?" one spoke, moving closer, into the light of Anders' staff. His black goatee was thin, his face gaunt. "Show us your papers."

"Show me your Templar Order insignia," Anders said in the same nonchalant tone.

"Or just give us your money and we'll let you be on your way," said another one.

"You don't want to do this," Anders said quietly. "We're not easy prey."

The man to the right of Fenris drew a dagger, but Fenris was faster. He ducked the blade at his throat, sweep-kicking the man off his feet. A blast of magic agitated his markings and he threw off his cloak, withdrawing his sword in time to block a blow. He felt the shock reverberate down the blade and into his arm. The cuff on his wrist hummed and sang with the enchantment the dwarf put on it, and he spun in time for a fireball to go sailing over his head. His movements, led by the cuff on his wrist felt instinctual and before too long, the bandits were off and running, realizing they were outmatched even if they were not outnumbered.

Fenris straightened, adrenaline coursing through his veins as the cold wind pulled at his meager tunic. He held his sword loosely in one hand, glancing around through the darkness, his eyes adjusting easily to the low light. He looked toward Anders, who was kneeling, cloak drawn up and over him.

"Mage, are you hurt?" Fenris asked, reaching out toward him. He didn't feel any distress through their link, and wondered if the bond would allow for that.

"That's not my name," Anders said irritably. "There you are," he said, and pulled a lump from his pack, standing.

Fenris gaped at the ginger tabby in the mage's arms.

"Poor Ser Pounce-a-lot," Anders cooed at him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drop you, love."

Fenris tilted his head, watching as Anders scratched the cat's stomach, and raised an eyebrow when he tucked the cat into the front of his robes. The lump moved a bit, then stilled.

"You have a cat."

"…Yes?" Anders asked, stooping to pick up his fallen pack and staff. "And? Lots of people have cats, Fenris. Or should I call you 'elf' if you're going to call me mage?"

Fenris scowled. "Anders," he conceded. "I didn't think that… perhaps this isn't the best place for your cat."

"And you'd rather I left him at the holdfast?" Anders wrinkled his nose. "He'd get lonely. Anyway. Are you all right? You're bleeding."

Fenris raised a hand to his throat. He felt the warm smear of blood on his fingers. "A nick."

"I can heal-"

"No," Fenris snapped. Then he added, softly, "It's fine. Thank you. We should continue if we're going to reach the inn before dawn."

"It's barely past suppertime…"

Fenris scowled, bent to pick up his own pack, and stomped off. He felt through their link Anders following before any of his other senses picked up on it, and wondered just how strong it would grow. It certainly had aided in the fight, despite never having worked with the mage before. Though that fight had ended in victory, however, it was clear they needed to practice. He would bring it up tomorrow. After all, the thought of this mage throwing magic at him in the pitch darkness still unnerved him.


	7. Chapter 7

The Spoiled Princess Inn was little more than a two story shack. Fenris had slept in worse, but he'd never seen a place more depressing. Three men were playing cards in a corner, though they appeared more interested in drinking than playing or talking. A bundle of rags in the shape of a man curled on the floor lifted a hand with a cup in it when he and Anders walked by, rattling the coppers that were inside. Anders fished out a coin and dropped it in, and there was a muffled sound that might have been the tramp's thanks.

Fenris ignored the stare of the innkeeper, the man's eyes going from his pointed ears, sloping bridge of his nose, to his lyrium lines. He often wondered if it was his elven status or his general appearance that put people off. After all, even as an elf he was an oddity. He stayed quiet while Anders haggled on a price for the room and ordered a breakfast for them in the morning. The innkeeper slipped him a key, and Anders led the way upstairs, looking as if he'd been here before. There were three rooms upstairs. Theirs was more spacious than the outside led them to believe, but no less depressing than downstairs, with a cold fireplace, two single beds with a chest of drawers between them, and a solitary, dirty window. There were no curtains or decorations of any kind, not even a rug.

Ferelden itself, Fenris was learning, was brown and grey. Or perhaps that was just because it was the middle of winter. Though he thought, the holdfast was a somewhat cheerful place, with lit fires, colorful tapestries, and people always milling about, laughter in the commons. It was clear that the Spoiled Princess was simply a place for travelers to sleep and move on. He looked out the window which faced a looming tower in the distance.

"The Chantry's Circle," Anders said, sneering. His tone was heavy with disdain as he tossed his pack at the foot of a bed. He sat, pulling off his boots, and removed his cat from the front of his robes. "There you go, Ser Pounce-a-lot."

The cat stretched and purred and wound around the mage's legs. Fenris removed his own pack and cloak, and started piling logs into the fireplace.

"That entire tower is a Circle of Magi?" Fenris asked carefully, not knowing if discussing the Circle would irritate the mage further.

Anders huffed, fluffing up the sad-looking pillow and lay back on the thin mattress. "It used to be a fortress. The Avvars built it."

"Barbarians." Fenris knew of them, though he was much less versed in Ferelden's history than any other country's. He only knew about the Avvars and the Alamarri in general because the magisters liked to tell tales about how their ancestors conquered the tribes of Ferelden.

"Bloody brilliant barbarians," Anders replied. "Now…" He tilted his head, looking out the window though at his angle he couldn't see even the tip of the tower. "It's a prison. Yes, a Circle. Built in a near impregnable fortress in the middle of the lake on an island accessible only by boat. Tells you how much the Chantry cares about their mages. Shove them somewhere everyone will forget about them."

Fenris approached the window, feeling the pull of magic at his markings as Anders lit the logs with a fireball. Ser Pounce-a-lot mewled happily and curled up on the hearth, purring. Through the dirty glass, Fenris could barely make out the lake's surface, the rising spire. It was blacker than the night, and he frowned, thinking about what it would be like to grow up there, to have no memories of anything but that tower. He'd lost his memories at the same age that Anders had been taken to the tower. For him, there was no childhood. For Anders, his childhood was lost as well, but in a different way. More parallels between them.

"You were part of the Chantry's Circle," Fenris said carefully. He hated feeling like he had to walk on eggshells around the mage, but he didn't want to have another shouting match. Not when he was sure those downstairs would hear them clearly.

He sat on the other bed, removed his boots, and curled up under the thin blanket. Ser Pounce-a-lot let out another mewl and hopped up next to him, nosing the blanket before pawing at it. Fenris frowned but lifted the covers and was surprised when the cat inched inside, turning and curling up against him, purring. He looked at Anders, who was frowning in the firelight.

"Cat's too social for his own good," he huffed, and pulled his own blanket up.

There was silence for a moment as Fenris pet Ser Pounce-a-lot and watched Anders, who lay on his back, arms crossed under his head, staring at the ceiling.

"Yes. I was part of it," Anders said quietly. "Karl got me out."

Fenris wondered if he should reveal what he knew. He decided that Anders would likely not appreciate it. "You and he are…"

Anders sighed, though it wasn't exasperated. "Complicated." There was a pause and he added, "Occasional." He looked over to Fenris. "You and Dagna?"

Fenris shook his head quickly, fingers slowing in the cat's fur. "Just friends."

"Hm."

Fenris wasn't sure what Anders meant by that and tried not to let it bother him. "What was the tower like?"

"Should I ask you what being a slave was like?"

It was Fenris's turn to sigh. "It was just a question. If we're to travel together-"

"If it works out," Anders said, frowning at the ceiling.

"We should train together tomorrow on the road," Fenris suggested, though he was hesitant to do so. It still meant a mage throwing magic at him. A mage who didn't like him very much.

_But he is not Danarius, and he is not your master. You are equals,_ he reminded himself.

Anders turned on his side to look at him, face half-hidden in shadow. "You were trained in Tevinter?"

His tone was light, inquiring, and Fenris tried to remind himself that general curiosity about his background was normal. Even Hawke and Bethany wanted to know more about him. Dagna asked questions as well. This was no different. Beneath the blanket, Ser Pounce-a-lot had seized his hand between his paws and started licking his fingers. He frowned a bit, and thought how to phrase his answer.

"I believe my master wanted impressiveness over skill, though I learned both. He used me as a tool of intimidation for other magisters, and it worked well. I fought in Provings for him, and the only practical use of my training came when the Qunari attacked us on the island of Serehon one evening."

"What happened?"

Fenris closed his eyes, remembering the night, the fires over the tops of the trees, people screaming. "We ran for the docks. The boats were full. There was no room for slaves. I managed to get my master safely to ship. He was furious when they denied him my passage. Dozens… perhaps hundreds of slaves were left behind. Slaughtered by the Qunari."

Anders let out a breath, and when Fenris opened his eyes again, the mage was gaping at him, lips slightly parted.

"I fell unconscious trying to defend the others. They were… household slaves. Not warriors." Fenris pursed his lips together to try to stop the story from spilling out, but the anger and fear he felt that night bubbled up inside him once more. He heard the screams of his fellow slaves, the roar of the Qunari as they attacked. "I don't know how many died. But when I woke, I was in the middle of a forest, surrounded by Fog Warriors."

"Fog Warriors?" Anders asked.

"Before the magisters, before the Qunari," Fenris explained, shifting as Ser Pounce-a-lot moved out from under the covers. "People native to the island."

Ser Pounce-a-lot shook himself off, stretched, and leapt onto the dresser. He peered out the window a moment before resuming his walk to Anders, and curled up on his pillow above his head. Anders reached up and lazily stroked him, still looking at Fenris to continue his story.

"They… nursed me back to health. I stayed with them for several months, contemplating freedom. What being without a master meant. And when my master came for me, I ran."

He would not tell Anders the whole story. That was his and his alone to keep, a coil of guilt as a stain on his soul. He had many regrets in his life, but that was possibly the only one that pained him to think about. His fingers flexed under the blanket, curling into a fist which he held against his chest.

"How long have you been on the run?"

Fenris thought a moment. Time seemed to blur. "Three years, perhaps. Before news of the Blight. I was in the Free Marches for some time. It seemed safer there than Orlais. Each time I was caught, I ran a bit farther."

"And you came to Ferelden."

"I was found by Hawke and Bethany and offered quarter by Commander Greagoir."

Anders scowled a bit at the name. "He was in the Chantry for the first ten years of his knighthood. He left with Irving to join the Church."

"He is no longer a templar, yet you disdain him still."

Anders raised an eyebrow. "All mages are not magisters, yet you condemn them as such."

Fenris scowled.

"Bias works both ways, Fenris," Anders said, yawning. He turned away and pulled the blanket up over his shoulder.

Fenris supposed with that, the conversation was over and he sighed, turning to his back to look up at the ceiling. He lifted his arm, looking at the cuff on his wrist which was rather innocuous now. With another sigh he turned again to his right side, curling a bit, clutching the pillow. At least they were able to get through a conversation without shouting at one another. Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep.

-

Anders was in the Fade. He often visited when he slept, and it came with a routine. He would call for Justice, search the surreal surroundings, and always come up empty. It was an evening plagued by desire demons all reaching out to him, imploring that if he took their deal, they would find Justice for him. Anders had never been so easily swayed, dealing with and dreaming of demons since he was eight or nine years old. His parents had put it down to normal childhood nightmares, at least until he'd set the barn on fire. Tonight was no different, and he stalked the brown mountains, the weird, wavering world verifying that he was in the world of spirits.

While Anders was proud of his magic, proud to be a mage and serve in his role the Church gave him, he did wonder what it would be like to sleep without dreams, or at least not be conscious while he dreamt. He'd tried mixing several potions, even asked Karl to help, but nothing seemed to work. No matter what, he was always here, always in the Fade, always searching for Justice. It was exhausting. He walked for miles through his dream, calling out to Justice, ignoring the desire demons with their empty promises.

"And what did I ask you to do?"

Anders stopped. He'd never heard that voice before. The accent was thick, something he couldn't recognize. He listened.

"Pour the wine, Master."

_That_ voice he recognized. It was the elf, his new Crusader. Despite only having known him a day and a half, no one Anders knew had quite that timbre or accent. He stepped forward past an outcropping of rock and saw through the shimmering air what could only be Fenris's dream. It hadn't been unusual for Anders to dream-share with Justice, or to meet Karl in the Fade while they both slept. He'd even stumbled into Jowan's dreams at one point, something that was best left forgotten.

The room Anders was looking into was opulent, high-ceilinged, and decorated with dragon effigies. A man sat in a wing-backed armchair, legs crossed, looking bored. In his hand he held a glass of red wine that he was examining. Fenris was kneeling in front of him, bent low, forehead pressed to the ground, palms flat on the floor. He was naked from the waist up, the lines of lyrium swirling up his spine, over his shoulder blades. Anders had wanted to ask more about them, but neither Hawke nor Bethany could provide any more insight other than what they were made from. He'd balked at the truth of it, and wondered how Fenris had survived such a thing.

"And what did you do?" the man – Fenris's master – asked.

With a start, Anders realized this man was a mage. However, he couldn't feel his actual presence. This was just a dream, not another mage manipulating Fenris's subconscious from afar. He stepped closer. The fact that he was now within the room, within the other mage's peripheral vision and was ignored lent credence to his belief.

"Spilled it, Master."

"Sit up."

Anders frowned, watching Fenris pull himself up off the floor. He was much younger in the dream than he was in real life. If Anders had to guess, he would assume early teens, though with elves it was very difficult to tell. They often looked younger than they actually were. The man stood, sipped from his wine glass, and Anders winced when he threw it in Fenris's face. Was this a dream? Or a memory played out in dream form? Fenris didn't react except to blink the wine from his eyes, his white hair dripping with the red liquid.

"You spilled it. All over Magister Faustinus's robes."

Fenris remained quiet, and Anders was fairly sure the other mage wasn't expecting an answer. He saw Fenris's fingers curl into fists resting on his thighs.

"You're lucky I don't particularly like Faustinus," he said, moving to a window that appeared out of the Fade. "Well?" he asked, holding out the glass.

Fenris hurried over, picking up a wine bottle and poured until the glass was nearly full. He set the bottle down and resumed his position.

"Five lashes."

Anders frowned. "Wait."

But he wasn't heard. It was impulse that made him call out; after all, he knew how difficult it was to interfere in dreams. A door opened in the room and a woman with black hair entered. Another mage? The man smirked and gestured her over. His daughter? Anders noticed she held a cat o'nine tails in her hand. He took a step back, not wanting to see this.

He turned, but heard the smack, could hear Fenris cry out from the pain. There was nothing he could do, after all. Another smack, louder this time. Then another that sounded more like a bang of metal against wood than leather against skin.

"Mage."

He was being shaken awake. It took him a moment to regain consciousness, to pull out of the Fade. Fenris was standing over him, scowling. Another bang at the door.

"By order of the Chantry, I command you open this door or we'll break it down."

"For Andraste's sake," Anders sighed. "Let them in before we have to pay for their idiocy."

Fenris moved away and unlatched the door. It opened at once, three templars immediately pushing past him into the room. Anders looked over tiredly and yawned, leaning up on his elbow. Ser Pounce-a-lot hissed, swiping a paw at the air. Anders reached back easily and grabbed him gently by the head.

"No, kitty," he admonished lightly. "Gentlemen," he said to the templars, sitting up slowly. "You're upsetting my cat." He blinked, rubbing an eye. "Ser Cullen?"

Fenris left the door open and approached. He was several inches shorter than any of the templars that stood at the bedside, but the irritation he felt at the rude awakening pushed him forward. He stepped in between the one Anders called Cullen and the mage's bedside.

"Our quarrel is not with you, serah," Cullen said to Fenris, looking at him.

"It is," Fenris said defiantly. "If you've an issue with my partner."

"Partner?" the one standing at the foot of the bed asked.

Fenris scowled. "The Chantry recognizes a Crusader of the Church of Andraste and his partner on official business, does it not?"

"Fenris," Anders said, covering another yawn. "My papers are in my bag. Could you get that for me?"

Fenris was still frowning, but moved toward the foot of the bed, snatching the pack out of the hands of the templar who'd bent to pick it up. He handed it to Anders, who rooted around a moment and pulled out several folded papers and handed them to Cullen. With a raised eyebrow, Cullen took them and read through.

"So. You've finally been assigned a Crusader. The Chantry never received official word from the Church. Irving is supposed to send word ahead. We need time to process new mage-Crusader teams. You'll have to come with us."

"The void I will!" Anders said, showing his first signs of irritation. He started to get out of bed.

Fenris felt it both in his markings and through his shared bond with Anders. One of the templars threw a silence followed by a cleanse, removing all magic in the room. He heard Anders gasp, as if he'd had the wind knocked out of him. The frustration he felt blossomed into anger and he removed the dagger at his side. A hand wrapped around his wrist, and he immediately felt Anders, the silver cuff vibrating. It made him pause, though he wanted nothing more than to slit the templars' throats. He was sure that not all of the rage he felt was his own, though.

"The mage will come with us, as he's not on an official registry with the Chantry as being part of a mage-Crusader team," Cullen said, stepping back so he could withdraw his sword.

"If I give you my papers as well, will that be sufficient enough?" Fenris asked, trying to stay calm despite the situation.

Anders released his wrist and stood next to him. His eyes were leveled at Cullen. "You have no legal authority to take me."

"We do if we believe you've run away from your Church. And you have done so before," Cullen answered.

Fenris moved in front of Anders, not quite chest-to-chest with Cullen as the human was several inches taller than him. "I have papers proving that I am the mage's Crusader, along with this," he said, raising his wrist to Cullen's eyes.

Cullen took his arm, causing his markings to flare involuntarily, the pain he felt at the touch resonating through them. The other templars drew their swords as Cullen dropped his arm quickly.

"What in the flames-"

Fenris scowled. "None of your concern. Do you see the cuff, templar?"

Cullen swallowed visibly, eyes narrowed as he inspected the cuff, not touching Fenris this time. "Let's see your papers, then."

Fenris shoved past him and knelt to pull the papers Greagoir had given him from his pack. Karl had helped him read the contract and sign his name at the bottom, which still looked at bit shaky. He handed the papers to Cullen, who took them and read.

"It seems legitimate…"

"Because it is," Fenris snarled. "If you take issue with the way the Church does something, I suggest taking it up with my direct commander, as I would with yours," he said, checking the insignia. "Lieutenant."

Cullen handed the papers back to Fenris, who continued to glare him. Fenris felt warmth in his wrist, and a feeling he couldn't quite place settling in his chest. His markings twinged and glowed dully once more, causing the other two templars to step back.

"Where are you heading on assignment?" Cullen asked, now addressing Fenris and ignoring Anders.

Fenris was slightly taken aback by this abrupt change. A moment ago he was nothing more than an elf to them. Now that he'd proven he was a Crusader in the Church, an equal to the templars, it appeared that Cullen wanted nothing else to do with Anders, and would speak to him instead.

"We're going to Redcliffe," Anders answered. "We're meeting up with two of our brethren to assist in the rebuilding of the country. You know. The one that suffered a Blight. That we helped stop. With no thanks to the templars."

Cullen scowled. "The Chantry sent mages-"

"I really, really do not care," Anders interjected. "Are we finished here? Fenris and I have several long days ahead of ourselves and we'd like to get on the road quickly."

Cullen seemed to mull this over in his head for a moment before turning back to Fenris. He crossed his wrists over his chest and inclined his head. "As you were, Crusader. I'll be sending word to Commander Greagoir about his lack of proper procedure."

"You do that," Fenris said, doubting that Greagoir would have either the time or patience for someone like Cullen.

The templars left, and Fenris slammed the door shut behind them. Scowling, he turned to Anders, who sunk onto the bed, head in hands.

"Are… you all right?" Fenris asked carefully.

"Silences," Anders muttered, dragging his hands down his face. "All my mana, my energy, drained." He looked up at Fenris.

Fenris frowned. "Do you have lyrium potions or…" He knew of the addictive properties of lyrium, knew what overindulgence could do to a mage. He'd seen it abused at the parties that Danarius threw. Mages had to be careful not to poison themselves, though most were self-aware enough not to do so.

Anders shook his head. "No. I rarely take them. Hardly need to. I can resist it most of the time, but I was completely unprepared. That's what the templars do. They wait until your guard is down and…" he trailed off, making a hand gesture Fenris had seen associated with silences.

"Does it…" Fenris hesitated. By asking the next question, he would reveal a bit of the knowledge he'd learned from Karl, but he was curious, and their confrontation with the templars left him feeling a bit sympathetic toward the mage. He attributed it to the linked jewelry, however. "Are you able to heal still because of your ability, despite the silence?"

Anders looked up at him, the feeling of being drained showing clearly on his face. "My ability?"

"Karl said you were a spirit healer and explained what it meant. There are none in Tevinter. Magisters who make deals with Fade creatures only call upon demons."

Anders frowned. How much had Karl told him? Had he mentioned Justice? Told Fenris that he was able to bolster his own magic because of him? "I'll be fine," Anders said. "It usually only takes a few minutes before my mana starts returning. But breakfast helps."

Fenris took it upon himself to head downstairs for said breakfast. Two bowls of soup, bread, eggs, and quite a bit of coffee. He doubted highly that the plant could grow anywhere in Ferelden, and wondered idly about trade routes. Danarius had enjoyed the beverage, and much to Fenris's disdain, he found he developed a taste for it as well, more so than tea.

Anders offered him a small smile when he returned, and they breakfasted in silence. Anders glanced out of the window a few times, scowling as he did.

"The tower?" Fenris asked.

"If I could burn it to the ground, I would," he replied, sharing his soup and bread with Ser Pounce-a-lot.

Fenris let out a small chuckle.

"What?" Anders asked, looking up at him.

"Simply that… I feel similarly. About the Imperium."

They looked at one another, and through their bond, Fenris felt a ripple of compassion. It wasn't what he'd felt earlier facing down Cullen, and realized as he looked down at his empty bowl that Anders had felt grateful. It wasn't an emotion that Fenris was used to. As far as he knew, the only positive emotions Danarius had toward him were all possessive. Of course there was a certain amount of affection. Fenris knew he'd been his master's favorite. But Danarius was never _thankful_ that he had such a capable slave.

"Fenris…"

He looked up at Anders, eyebrow raised. Anders set his tray aside, petting Ser Pounce-a-lot slowly, wondering how to bring up the dream he'd seen. Or even if he should.

"We should get going," he said finally. "It's a long walk."

Fenris nodded, though he was fairly sure the mage had wanted to say something else. However, he didn't press. Aside from the templars intruding in their business, it had been a fairly pleasant morning. He pulled on his boots, settled his cloak, and strapped his sword to his back on the outside. Hopefully the sight of a giant greatsword would deter highwaymen and thieves from interfering before Fenris actually had to pull it. They left the inn heading north around the lake, Fenris marveling at the ice that formed at the edges.

"Different than what you're used to?" Anders asked.

"After I left Minrathous, I went to Antiva," Fenris said, looking at the overcast sky. "The only grey there was the smog from the foundries in Antiva City. It's warm and humid, and it stinks. But a different smell than here."

"Not as much dog shit there," Anders joked lightly, scratching at Ser Pounce-a-lot's head, which poked from the front of his robes. He was feeling slightly better after food, but still weak.

"No," Fenris chuckled. "Though packs of wild dogs do roam the countryside, coming into the city at night to scavenge what they can."

"I don't get outside of Ferelden much," Anders said.

"I expect you wouldn't want to see Thedas in the way I had to."

"…I didn't mean it like that."

Fenris shook his head, not wanting to start an argument. "I know. I apologize."

They fell into a slightly awkward silence as they trekked around the lake, stopping briefly midday for food. Fenris offered his second apple to Anders, who took it with thanks. It seemed that not talking was easier for the both of them as they continued on, one not wanting to inadvertently offend the other. Fenris grew tired and irritated and slightly bored, and once a mountain range came into view, broke the silence.

"Have you ever been to Orzammar?"

Anders frowned. "No. Dagna speaks of it fondly though. I can't imagine living in a place like that."

"Dwarves aren't all bad," Fenris said.

"I'm not talking about dwarves," Anders replied sharply. "Miles of rock above your head. Pressing down. Dark. No sunlight ever." He shuddered.

"Hm." Fenris suspected it likely had to do with his time in solitary confinement, but said nothing. It was more difficult than he'd anticipated keeping his silence about what Karl told him.

The sun was starting to set to their right when Anders spoke again.

"Fenris."

"Yes?"

"Last night you had a dream."

Fenris frowned. He'd been woken so abruptly by the banging on the door that he hadn't had time to think about or even recall what he'd been dreaming. It came back to him now. Nearly two years after he'd received his markings he was learning how to pour wine from an Orlesian sommelier. Danarius was hosting a dinner and he'd spilled a bit on Magister Faustinus Scaevola's robes when the man groped him. Danarius hadn't seen that of course, just the upset his slave caused.

"Yes?" Fenris managed through gritted teeth.

It was dark now, and Anders lit the tip of his staff. Neither was very tired, just dusty and travel-worn from the walk.

"Are your dreams always so…" He gestured, as if the word he was looking for was just out reach in the darkness.

"Does it bother you?" Fenris snapped. "You can remove the jewelry if it would cut the link and spare you thinking of it."

"That's not what I meant!" Anders shot back. "It doesn't bother me-"

Fenris scowled. "I imagine it wouldn't."

"You're misinterpreting me again. On purpose!" Anders clacked his staff against the stone highway, irritated. "I only meant that the dreams themselves are not… they're not bothersome. They don't… Forget it. Anything I say you'll just turn it around anyway. The whole world is against _you_ isn't it?"

Fenris yanked his cloak more tightly around himself, his own annoyance was doubled by the mage's he felt through their bond. He itched to take the cuff and hurl it in the lake, to leave the mage to his own defenses. "I dislike discussing that part of my past," he said finally. "No one needs to know the sordid details of my life as a slave. It is over. Unless you'd like to talk about your time in the Chantry's Circle? Or perhaps your life before you became a ward of the Chantry?"

"Ward," Anders scoffed. "That's a lovely euphemism. You mean how I was thrown in a cellar for days by my own father? Or was clapped in irons at the age of twelve like a criminal because my magic manifested? Dragged off to the tower, not told anything, surrounded by people who didn't speak my language? Is that what you want to know?"

"Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?" Fenris quipped, looking at him.

They'd stopped again to argue, and it felt all too familiar as the night before.

"No. I don't want your pity," Anders replied, frowning in the light of his staff.

"Nor I yours. Or anyone else's. We do not need to know each other's hardships in order to work together. Yet you continue to bring it up."

"I was just wondering about the dream-"

"Twenty," Fenris said suddenly.

"I… twenty what?" Anders asked, completely confused.

"It was twenty lashes with a whip, not a cat o'nine tails. And I was chained to a wall, not kneeling on the floor. So it seems my subconscious, while recollecting the incident, managed to get a few things wrong."

"…oh."

They stared at one another, Fenris glaring, Anders' expression softening a bit. Fenris sighed, dropping his gaze. They would get nowhere quickly trying to outdo one another with tales from their past. Not every conversation devolved into an argument, but it was tiresome to try to keep the talk from swaying into the times in their lives they'd both rather not think about.

"If you want…"

"What, mage?" Fenris said quietly, and started walking again. They would need to make camp soon. It was too cold to continue for much longer.

"I could try to manipulate your dreams. It's difficult to do, but I could maybe steer them into something more pleasant."

Fenris was about to snap back a reply, to tell Anders in no uncertain terms that if he so much as thought of using magic on him while he was unconscious that he'd wake up to a broken nose. But he recognized the offer for what it was. Not a threat, but a proverbial olive branch. He clenched his fists beneath his cloak.

"I dislike when magic is used on me. But I will give it thought," he said finally.

Anders accepted the response, and they decided to set camp for the night. A hollowed out space under the highway allowed a reprieve from the biting wind and they built up a large fire that Fenris huddled next to in order to take the first watch. He watched Anders settle on the bedroll, blanket pulled up to his chin. There was a wriggling as Ser Pounce-a-lot settled, and soon the night was filled with the mage's quiet snores. Fenris looked at his wrist, feeling the heat from the cuff, and shifted a bit closer to both the man and the fire. His markings glowed dully, but the accompanying pain wasn't there, or perhaps he couldn't feel it due to the numbing weather.

Whatever the reason, he decided, he would not think on it now. In another day or so they would reach Redcliffe, and he would have his first official duty as a Crusader to worry about. At least, he thought as the night grew on, if he did make a mistake the punishment would definitely not be anything like what Danarius put him through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RL update here (feel free to skip):
> 
> Things are getting a bit hectic and crazy here regarding housing issues and we may be moving soon. I'll put a note in my profile if that's the case as there may not be time for me to continue writing the second part in a timely manner. The first part is finished but largely unedited.
> 
> Rest assured that regardless of what happens, this story will be completed (both parts!) eventually. I would not leave you guys hanging indefinitely <3


	8. Chapter 8

It started to snow the next morning and Fenris kept his gaze up as they walked south. While he'd seen snow before, it was always after it had fallen and never in this amount. He knew it was somewhat childish to be mesmerized by something as simple as snowfall, but to him it was pleasant, calming. Anders however, merely pulled his cloak up a bit more tightly around himself and his skin seemed to shimmer with some sort of spell. Fenris was tempted to ask him for a similar spell for himself, but was still wary of the mage using magic on him. He held his hand out, watching as several snowflakes fell on his gauntlet and melted.

"You remind me of myself," Anders said quietly.

Fenris looked over. "Hm?"

"It doesn't really snow in the Anderfels," he explained. "When I came to Ferelden… They don't let mages out of the tower often, but we were allowed to sit just outside when it snowed. The apprentices, the children, anyway. We built snow-templars. The best part was setting them on fire after."

Fenris looked at him a moment, then laughed as Anders smirked. "Truly?"

"You don't believe me?" Anders asked, grinning. "Ask Karl. He was there. I still didn't have many friends. But I think I had better control of my magic than the others. It's part of the reason I was Harrowed so young." He paused. "You know about the Harrowing?"

Fenris nodded. "Karl explained it."

"It's a deplorable procedure." Anders shuddered. "Not all mage-apprentices are children, of course, but still, to subject a child to that…"

He fell quiet, and Fenris felt a slight despair through their bond. "What is it?"

"There's more to the Harrowing than just going into the Fade and facing demons."

Fenris winced, feeling the sadness tug at his chest. "Mage."

Anders shook his head. "Sorry. Just bad memories."

"If you wish to talk…" Fenris trailed off, frowning as Anders shook his head again.

They trudged through the snow which slowly piled up, Fenris growing slightly more agitated with the feelings he knew weren't his own.

"The jewelry works fast," he noted, trying to distract himself.

"That's the odd thing," Anders said, contemplatively. "With Justice it worked rather quickly. But the First Enchanter supposed it was because Justice was part Fade spirit himself. There was a quicker bond. But with other pairings… Jowan and Carver, for example, I remember Jowan telling me that it took months before he could really feel Carver through their link. I expect the same was for Carver. It makes sense for the bond to form more quickly if the pair is related or if there are… other circumstances. But it's been barely any time at all since we've met." He paused, looking at Fenris as they walked. "I thought perhaps… your markings."

Fenris scowled. "Lyrium brands."

Anders nodded. "Possibly they have something to do with it. Maybe they're affecting the enchantments. I'm not sure. I've never heard of such a thing, branding lyrium into the skin. Ever. Even throughout history."

"There were many who died during the… experimentation process." He remembered Danarius boasting about it. How many were killed? And even he, Fenris, didn't escape unscathed. All his memories prior to the procedure were simply wiped away. He still remembered the agonizing pain as the magisters opened his flesh, the sting of the lyrium, the hiss of the brand. "There are no others like me," he said, though there was no note of pride when he spoke. Danarius would brag about his abilities and force him into a demonstration. "They do seem to… react to you more than any other mage I've been in contact with. Perhaps that is also the enchantment's doing."

"Do they hurt?" Anders asked carefully.

Fenris sighed. "They… they do not hurt constantly. But I dislike when others touch me. Sometimes it feels similar to pressing on a bruise or a cut." It wasn't the only reason he had an aversion to touch, but he wasn't going to elaborate.

Anders frowned. "Hawke slapping you on the back-"

"Can't be helped," Fenris muttered. 

He'd asked Hawke to not touch him, but the man seemed incapable of showing restraint. The slaps weren't altogether unpleasant aside from the pain that accompanied them. He understood the camaraderie behind them. Though he wasn't used to being touched when it didn't end in excessive bleeding or torment. Then again, that was solely Hadriana's doing. Danarius would often use magic to teach him a lesson, rather than strike him physically.

"And when Cullen grabbed your wrist."

Fenris tugged his hood up, his hair wet from the snowfall, ears turning pink from the cold. "It hurt. It was unfamiliar and unwelcome. The markings react accordingly. Sometimes it's involuntary, but I can control them."

"Sounds almost like Justice," Anders said. "When he was younger, apparently he had trouble with his anger. It would cause his powers to become erratic. By the time I met him though, he was surprisingly calm. Always seemed to accept his lot in life. But being a spirit of the Fade, he didn't understand a lot of human behavior. I had to teach him."

Fenris listened to him talk about Justice, and there was a hint of pride in his tone and through their link. He felt the warmth and affection that Anders had for the other man. "Were you in love with him?" he asked, trying to place the feelings that hummed across their bond.

"I… I don't normally talk about Justice," Anders said quickly, almost as if he'd revealed too much.

"I understand."

He didn't, not completely. But if Anders didn't wish to talk more, Fenris wouldn't push. When they weren't arguing, he actually found the mage's presence somewhat companionable. Figuring since Anders had given him a bit of himself, Fenris decided to repay the gesture.

"When you saw me with Mason that night, I was demonstrating my abilities. Most are… shocked when they find out. You would be surprised how many hunters Danarius-" He frowned, using his master's name aloud for the first time. Shaking his head, he continued. "How many hunters aren't informed. Then when my fist phases through their head or chest, the last thing on their face is that surprise."

Anders frowned. "So you just… kill them?"

Fenris gave him a sharp look. "You'd have me go quietly?"

"No, of course not!" Anders insisted. "But you couldn't knock them out?"

"If templars chased you down, cornered you, wanted to drag you back to the tower – if Ser Cullen had tried to bring you back, would you have gone willingly? Would you have just knocked him out?"

Fenris was angry, though he tried to contain it. He wasn't sure how much the mage could feel through their linked bond, but if it was similar to how he felt, he could imagine the rage coursing through Anders' veins right now. They slowed in their steps, and Fenris prepared himself for another argument, another shouting match.

It never came.

"No," Anders admitted quietly, and looked at him from under his hood. "No. I don't think I would have done either."

His tone, his posture, the acknowledgment of his own actions in a similar situation served to calm Fenris somewhat.

"Perhaps it's different because the Crusaders are a military organization," Fenris relented. "There are consequences if you kill others. But if you were a Chantry mage, running away, just trying to be free from the Circle."

"I…"

"Have you killed templars?"

Anders frowned, turning away, not saying anything. But he didn't have to. Fenris knew the answer.

"So you understand. If they run, I do not pursue them. Of course they would run back to Minrathous to tell my master where I was, to garner reinforcements to come after me again. He would punish them for their failure and that is enough for me. I would be long gone before more hunters show up. I pity them in a way."

Anders looked at him.

"I've been a sword for sale before," Fenris explained. "It was the easiest way to gain coin or food while I was running. I don't blame the hunters that come after me. They're likely trying to feed their families. I can't hate them. But I can kill them without remorse. They knew the consequences of the job when they took it. And it's a just punishment for working for a magister." He vehemently spat the last word.

Anders flinched at the flare of rage, and Fenris took a breath to calm himself again.

"I very briefly considered joining the Crows," he said, deciding this was a safe course in which to take the conversation.

They quickened their pace once more, Anders stepping just a bit more closely to Fenris.

"I know one. He fought at the battle against the archdemon," Anders supplied.

"The Warden's lover," Fenris said, remembering the conversation with Hawke and Bethany. "I was trained by one. They're largely assassins, but they have several skills. Seduction, poisons, trap-laying. Espionage. They're well-organized. And extremely powerful."

"Why didn't you join?" Anders asked, genuinely curious. "They could've provided you the protection you needed from Danarius, couldn't they?"

Fenris held his hands out in front of him, the lyrium markings dull white, matching the falling snow. "Crows have one very large advantage. They can fade into the darkness. They're unrecognizable. I am an elf, which some might see as advantageous. No one pays attention to a lone elf except to think him easy prey. But the markings…"

"You sort of stick out," Anders agreed. "There was a lot of talk about you when you first showed up."

Fenris bristled at that. He knew there would be, but it was another thing to hear it confirmed. "I expect that's normal. Were there stories? That perhaps I was Dalish?"

"A few," Anders confirmed. "Some of the elves didn't believe it though. They said the markings would be darker."

"And they were right. Vallaslin is made from blood. _Vallas_ means writing, _lin_ is blood. Blood writing." Fenris knew of several in Danarius's household, though he'd never asked how Dalish elves came to such a place to be slaves.

"Do you speak elven?" Anders asked.

Fenris shook his head. "I know a handful of phrases. Mostly threats and curses. My name… my master bestowed it upon me. It means 'little wolf' in the language. No doubt he thought it was exceedingly clever of him." He would not tell Anders how proud it made him to have a special name given to him by his master, how grateful he was for Danarius's special attentions. It was embarrassing, even if he hadn't known better then. "I cannot remember if I had a name before that."

"Surely your mother must've given you a name."

"If she did, I have no memory of it."

"…I'm sorry."

Fenris scowled. "I do not tell you this to gain your pity."

"It's not-" Anders broke off with a sigh. To try to explain compassion to someone who likely never received any, to someone like Fenris, would likely start a fight. Instead, he let the feeling wash through their bond.

The scowled deepened. "Desist."

"I can't help how I feel, Fenris," Anders said gently.

Fenris gathered his cloak more tightly around himself. "I speak Tevene, some Qunlat, and Antivan," he said tersely, in an attempt to redirect the conversation.

"Between us, we have nearly the entire continent covered," Anders replied, his tone light.

Fenris felt a tug of curiosity at his chest that wasn't his own. "What?"

"Hm?"

"This… link is somewhat irritating," Fenris sighed. "You want to ask a question."

"I've no wish to start an argument."

It seemed that the mage was aware of the issue as well. Fenris took a breath. "Ask. I can't promise I will answer. But I will attempt to do so without rancor."

Anders accepted that and asked, "Why did you join the Crusaders?"

It wasn't a question that Fenris was expecting. He knew the mage was curious about his lyrium brands, his past. He thought he'd have to field another question about that. The frustrating thing was that while he wouldn't have wanted to answer, he would at least have been capable of doing so. This question asked gave him pause. Why _had_ he joined the Crusaders?

"Well, I could not join the Church," he said finally, deflecting the question. "After all, I am not a mage."

"Was… that a joke?"

Fenris sighed. "I truly don't know why I joined. Perhaps it was Hawke." Or Bethany. "The lure of having some type of willing ally at my back was a promising one. Running from town to town grew tiresome. And I no longer wish to flee, but I've no desire to die, either. Without allies I am an easy target for my master, who may remove himself from his comfortable estate to take up the hunt himself if his hunters continue to fail. I cannot face him alone."

"Tired of running," Anders mused.

Fenris felt a burst of compassion through the link, and this time it soothed him. "You understand."

"I think Karl understood it better than I did," Anders said, looking at him sidelong. "So you stopped running and decided to take up with us."

"I did."

"Hawke's doing, then."

Fenris's lips curled into a small smile. "He saw, I think, an elf outnumbered; possibly he believed I was being harassed just because of it. Personally I'd never met anyone quite like him. Willing to help someone simply because they needed it, without thought of compensation."

Anders nodded. "He's a good man."

"He watched me kill a man using my abilities and didn't even flinch. He asked why they were attacking me. So I told him. I thought he would leave me then, or turn me in for his own profit. He surprised me. He was even more appalled to think I was a slave on the run, being hunted."

"Hawke doesn't hold with slavery." Anders paused, wondering if he should elaborate. "There was a… a problem in Denerim. Shortly before the archdemon attack. It was discovered that Arl Howe was selling elves from the alienage to Tevinter slavers. He was… " Anders shook his head.

Fenris scowled, feeling the surge of disgust across the bond. Something awful had happened in Denerim's alienage, it seemed. He recalled Greagoir mentioning some 'business' in Denerim, but hadn't pressed for details. "That's why he was tried even after he was dead."

Anders nodded. "It was almost unanimously decided that his lands would be given to the Couslands for reparation."

"And the elves in Denerim?" Fenris pressed.

Anders let out a breath, adjusting his pack on his back as they walked. "King Alistair is helping to rebuild the alienage. It was hit pretty badly in the attack."

That was not what Fenris had meant. Irritated, he clarified, "And what about the families that suffered? The ones who were shipped off in crates like cargo and taken across the sea?" 

The anger he felt at the injustice of it flared in his chest, and when Anders reached out, touching his arm, he nearly swung at him.

"Fenris, calm down," Anders said, his voice even as he gripped his arm through the cloak.

Fenris turned toward him, and Anders firmly took his other arm as well. There was a soothing calm that washed over him, and while it served its purpose, it frustrated him at the same time.

"Stop that," Fenris snapped. "You cannot use our link to… to manipulate my feelings!"

"I'm not saying you don't have every right to feel the way you do," Anders said calmly. "It's over. It's done. There's nothing that can be done now for those elves."

"Is that you or your king talking?" Fenris snarled, looking up at him, hood falling back, green eyes flashing in anger and pain. "How many were lost? Do you even know? Does he?"

Anders frowned, brow furrowed. "I don't know, Fenris. Things are still quite bad. We're still rebuilding."

"Oh that's lovely for you. I'm glad that you can rebuild your castles and your walls. Meanwhile dozens of elves are on auction blocks in Minrathous or Qarinus being sold to the highest bidder. Or already polishing their master's shoes and taking lashes for the smallest infraction."

"Lots of people were lost in the Blight, Fenris," Anders said, still trying to calm him, still gripping his arms so tightly that it hurt.

The lyrium lines flared, a bright bluish white that was visible through his cloak. "Dead from darkspawn attacks and being sold to slavers are _not_ the same thing!"

"At least they still have their lives," Anders pressed. "There's still a chance they can-"

Fenris wrenched himself from the mage's grasp, took a step back and slipped on a patch of ice, falling hard to the stone. When Anders bent quickly to help him, Fenris smacked his hands away.

"Don't touch me, _mage_."

"Is that how it's going to be?" Anders said quietly. "Arl Howe wasn't a mage. Your anger should be for him, for Teryn Loghain who let it happen. But you'll be livid with me first for what happened because of what you suffered at the hands of your former master. You've seen the mages here, you've seen how templars treat proposed apostates. Yet you'll still blame us when we had nothing to do with it. We're not magisters, Fenris. We're not Tevinters. The king doesn't hold with slavery-"

"Yet he'll do nothing to attempt to bring them back."

Anders stood quickly, throwing his arms in the air and stomped away a few feet before turning. "And what would you want him to do, Fenris? Declare war with Tevinter? I'm sure he would, he's that stupidly idealistic. But he wouldn't win. And then Ferelden would have to deal with Tevinters invading Ferelden on top of repairing the damage from the darkspawn!"

Fenris got slowly to his feet, frowning at his torn cloak and pulled his hood up once again.

"Lots of people were lost in the Blight," Anders said again, looking at him. "Lots of people were sold into slavery, not just elves. People trying to get away who were tricked into getting smuggler's ships and sold. I'm not saying this to justify the king's inaction. We just… you'll see. When we get to Redcliffe. It wasn't hit as hard, but it was still bad." He sighed. "Maybe we should've gone west around the lake. Lothering… it's no more than a burnt out husk of a town."

Fenris reached out this time, fingers brushing the mage's cloak. "I…"

"It's fine. It's… I understand. I think," Anders added, sighing again. "Everyone needs help now. Everyone. That's why the Church is doing what it can. For what it's worth, Warden Cousland was given a boon by the king, and the alienage will have proper representation with all city matters."

"His lover's influence, no doubt," Fenris quipped.

Anders gave him a look. "Don't judge him before you've even met the man."

"I'm sure he's perfectly pleasant to elves," Fenris said sardonically. "Having an elven lover proves he's all for equality, surely."

Anders gaped at him before sputtering. "He's not keeping him as a… as a pet! They're equals!"

"Elves will never be equal," Fenris said evenly.

Anders stared, silent for once.

"What?" Fenris asked, dropping his hand, feeling the weight of that bemused gaze. He felt the confusion and annoyance across their bond.

"You are just determined to be one giant ball of bitter broodiness."

Fenris blinked, then scowled. "If you'd seen half of what I've-"

"Don't start," Anders said, covering his face with hands. He walked away, letting out a cry of frustration. "Maker, give me patience!"

Fenris gritted his teeth, pulling his torn cloak more tightly around himself as he followed. He hardly thought it fair that the mage was acting this way. As if the argument had been _his_ fault. He had every right to be angry for the sake of the elves that were ripped from their homes and sold. He knew what it was like in Tevinter for elves, especially those that had no magical ability whatsoever. He wanted to say something to Anders, to snipe at him again, but it wouldn't lead to anything but another argument, so they fell into their usual terse silence as the day wore on. They stopped briefly to eat, and Anders broke their unspoken agreement not to talk.

"You mentioned that we should train together. You're right."

Fenris scowled, ducking his head as he inched closer to the small fire. "Yes."

"We should draw limits," Anders continued. "No silences. I can't have my mana drained, especially if we're out in the open like this and vulnerable to thieves. Or straggling bands of darkspawn. Cleanses are fine."

"And what about the blade?" Fenris asked. "I doubt you can fix yourself if I end up cleaving you in two."

Anders frowned, contemplating. "Granted, an actual training room would serve better, with a practice sword and training dummies."

"I propose we learn to work together," Fenris stated plainly. "What did you and Justice do?"

Anders shook his head. "It was different with him."

"And I expect that you'll be different than my master," Fenris said sharply. "That does not mean we cannot use old tactics."

Anders fell silent, thinking. It was still difficult to talk about Justice, to try to explain the bond they had to someone who never met him. Justice was larger than life. And while Anders likely had put him up on an untouchable pedestal, that didn't mean he wasn't a formidable warrior. He wondered what Justice would have done were he put in his situation.

"Perhaps we ought to wait until we reach Redcliffe if you are unwilling," Fenris said finally.

"I'm not unwilling," Anders snapped. "But it might be best if we do wait."

He stood and iced over the fire, scooping up Ser Pounce-a-lot who'd been lazing near it and tucking him back into his robes. Fenris gathered his things and they started off once more.

"How much longer before we reach Redcliffe?" Fenris asked, peering out over the glassy surface of the lake. He'd been across the Waking Sea and been sailing on Rialto Bay with Danarius, both which were huge bodies of water, but he'd never seen a lake as large as Lake Calenhad before. Perhaps the Church didn't have enough in its coffers to purchase a boat. It would've made the journey much shorter, and therefore in Fenris's mind, much more bearable.

"Tomorrow evening. Possibly less if we walk through the night, though I don't recommend it. The further south we go, the more likely we are to encounter darkspawn. Or Blight-infested wolves and bears."

"Hm. Let us hope we get attacked, then." Fenris felt the alarm and confusion through their bond, and he smiled, looking over. "Then we can take out frustrations out on them, and perhaps even get a bit of practice in."

Anders looked at him, shaking his head a bit, but Fenris caught a hint of a smile, and felt a warmth he couldn't quite place. It faded eventually as they continued their walk in silence, though thankfully it was comfortable this time. The journey itself wasn't arduous in the least, the Highway wrapped around the lake and was in fairly good condition, likely from the dwarven merchants repairing it in order to bring goods from the surface into Orzammar. But the company was what made it difficult to endure.

He'd met many people while he was on the run, but none that he needed to speak to for more than an hour. Other sell-swords, people who wanted to hire him, they didn't care about his world views nor he theirs. He performed a job and was paid accordingly. Danarius and the other magisters did not care what a slave thought. Hawke and Bethany were pleasant, Dagna frankly was fascinating once one saw past her eccentricities, and Karl was firm but fair and a very patient teacher. But Anders… the mage got under his skin, rankled him. Their perfectly pleasant conversations turned acidic with one comment. It was tiresome.

His thoughts were interrupted as the Highway ended, a portion of the road in ruins from a battle, rather than disrepair. In the distance he could see a pack of wolves fighting over something, and when he squinted, he realized what it was.

"A corpse."

Anders frowned, and Fenris felt the mage's sorrow. Instinctively he reached out and gripped his arm in an involuntary attempt to comfort him. To his surprise, the mage did not pull away from him.

"We need to move past them. The least we can do is give the poor sod a proper burial."

Fenris grunted. "The ground may be frozen."

"I'm a mage."

The response was simple, somewhat light, but defiant. Anders would bury the man if it took them all night to dig the hole. Resigned to this, Fenris climbed down off the broken stone with him, withdrew his sword, and tossed his cloak aside.

"The wolves look infected," Anders noted as they approached slowly, setting his pack down. "Don't get bitten. The taint might not be transferrable like that, but I'd rather not find out the hard way."

Fenris felt a not unpleasant pull at his markings as Anders lifted his staff. The air grew colder as he drew his magic up and channeled it, the ball of light at fingertips turned from white to red. Fenris felt the heat of the fireball, watching the careful control the mage had as he roasted two of the wolves before they even had a chance to react. Fenris darted forward to handle a third that leapt, bringing his sword across the creature's middle from throat to belly, spattering gore and blood to the pure white snow under his feet. A fourth attacked and he spun, the blade sinking into the creature's neck. It whimpered as it lay dying, and a quick blast of electricity from Anders put it out of its misery. Two more in the pack fled into the woods, abandoning the corpse for an easier meal.

"There might have been a less messy way to do that," Anders said, frowning as he reached up toward Fenris.

Fenris let him pick a chunk of flesh from his hair, barely flinching. He felt the warm blood on his face and looked down. His tunic was coated in it, dark red and already congealing.

"I can-" Anders cut off, shaking his head. "Never mind. I know you don't like-"

"Go ahead."

The easy agreement was met with surprise, Anders raising his eyebrows as he looked at him. But Fenris merely nodded. He kept his eyes firmly on the mage's hands as he cast. Fenris wasn't sure what spell it was, perhaps a smaller ice storm, some elemental branch that left him shivering slightly. He watched Anders' palms glow orange-red with flame, and felt his own trepidation as his heart raced.

"It's okay," Anders assured him, feeling that anxiety through their bond. "It won't burn you. You can touch, if you'd like. If it'll help."

Fenris hesitated, the lyrium feeling like tiny pinpricks in his skin. It was more akin to a limb that was waking up after loss of circulation, but not unpleasant. He flexed his fingers, the gauntlet tips piercing his palms momentarily before he reached up slowly and touched the fire. It was like a sunbeam, warm and comforting. He let Anders guide his hands to his chest, and gasped as the feeling spread over him. He closed his eyes, the lyrium lines lighting bright enough that he could see it through his eyelids. He heard Anders' gasp and looked up, the mage's eyes sparkling in the light, pupils dilated, honey-hued irises flickering.

And it was gone in a second, Anders stepping back away from him, pulling his hood up. Fenris looked down at himself. The blood was gone from his tunic, though slightly stained. He reached up to touch his hair, careful of his spiky gauntlets as he did so. Clean.

"That's…"

He'd meant to comment on the convenience of the combination of spells, or even to thank him, but couldn't find the words. His markings dulled, but he still felt them.

"Anders."

Anders was turned away from him, shoulders slightly rounded. There was no response for a moment, then the mage turned to look at him.

"I think I heard it."

"Heard it?" Fenris asked, shivering in the cold. He bent to retrieve his cloak and pack and tugged them on before they approached the corpse.

"The lyrium song. Justice would talk about it. He made me promise never to let him drink any. He was afraid he wouldn't be able to stop. He said that it sang to him."

Fenris watched Anders kneel, and he looked at the corpse in disgust. The wolves had removed the man's arm, his stomach torn open, intestines chewed on. His throat was torn out, which likely meant he'd bled out long before they started to eat him. At the very least it appeared to be a quick death. Anders checked his pockets but came up empty. There was a ring, though, a simple golden band, and Fenris watched Anders remove it.

"He may have a wife looking for him. I'll give it to Arl Eamon and inform the local chantry when we get to Redcliffe," Anders said, a note a sadness in his voice as he slipped the ring into his pocket.

Anders cleared the snow and they dug a shallow grave together in order to put the man to rest. Fenris frowned as they stared at the pile of dirt, hoping the mage didn't expect him to say any words. Thankfully, the moment of silence seemed sufficient and they started off again, regaining the road a few hundred feet later. It took a sharp turn to their left, and the sun set behind them.

"We should be there tomorrow by midday," Anders said, glancing back over the mountains, then looking ahead. "We're making better time than I originally thought. It's been ages really since I left the holdfast."

"Do you miss teaching?" Fenris asked.

Anders laughed. "No. Well. A bit. It's always nice to see the look on the apprentice's faces when they cast a spell properly for the first time. Discovering that you have this power can be daunting."

"In Tevinter, it's a huge honor," Fenris said, frowning. "The class system is prevalent, like dwarves. When a member of the mundane – the Soporati – is found to be a mage, the prestige that mage brings to his or her family raises the entire family aloft. Of course, they're not as revered as those who can trace their lineage back to the ancient magisters. My master often bragged of his heritage."

"Huh. It's the opposite here."

"I'd imagine being thrown in a basement and locked up isn't exactly a mark of pride in a family," Fenris said lightly.

Anders pursed his lips, knocking his staff to the ground as it became too dark to see, the tip lighting their pathway ahead.

"It was good that you had Enchanter Thekla," Fenris said, and meant it. "And the others. You were surrounded by friends, at the very least. In times like this, with these conditions, it's good to count what you have."

"Oddly optimistic coming from you," Anders noted.

Fenris chuckled. "Perhaps I am also starting to see it that way. It could have been much worse."

"Worse than being bound to a mage, you mean?" Anders said.

Fenris shrugged, gesturing behind them. "I could have been that man we buried. And there might not have been a mage around to chase the wolves off."

"That's… incredibly morbid, Fenris."

"But optimistic."

He smiled as he felt the exasperation through their link as they continued onward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this chapter is up late! We've had a hell of a week RL-wise. (All good things, just hectic!) Looks like Friday afternoon/evenings are going to be a normal posting time for me for awhile until things settle down over here. I will keep my promise of at least once a week until part 1 is finished though. Thanks for sticking with me still, guys! <3
> 
> \--
> 
> ETA: FlitShadowflame has pointed out to me in the comments that Andrastians don't actually bury their dead, and burning the corpse would have been appropriate. So that's my bad. I'm going to leave the original work intact though, but with the acknowledgement that I oopsed up on the lore. ^_^


	9. Chapter 9

Castle Redcliffe was visible on the edge of the lake as they rounded the Imperial Highway, a collection of jutting turrets on the horizon. Fenris felt a calming relief across their bond, and couldn't help smirking a bit as Anders quickened his pace. He hurried to match him. The midday sun was actually visible today, and he held a hand to his forehead to cut the glare as the light glinted off the snow. The castle was set out on the lake, a long stone bridge crossing the water toward it and Fenris approved of the obvious defensive way the castle was built, though wondered if it had ever come under siege. Minrathous was built similarly, and the city had never fallen.

"Are we to report to the castle straight away?" Fenris asked as they approached the gates to the town.

"No," Anders said, shaking his head. "We might not be welcome in the castle, all things considered. I think we ought to get a room at the inn first. I… know the waitress there," he said. "Former waitress, I suppose. Bella co-owns it now thanks to the Warden."

Fenris felt the slight embarrassment, and even if he couldn't, he saw the blush in the mage's cheeks. _Ah,_ he thought, realizing what was meant by 'knowing' the waitress. He wondered idly if it meant they would receive a discounted rate.

Anders showed his papers to one of the soldiers at the gate and Fenris was pleased when the man saluted enthusiastically. Once they passed into the town, Fenris saw the destruction the war had brought. Half the buildings appeared to be missing, scorched earth where a great fire had burned them down.

"There was an attack of undead," Anders explained. "The Warden and the king were here. I didn't see it. We were fleeing the south, looking for a place to rehouse the Church. Jowan and Carver were here though, and a few others, but they came before Ostagar happened. Before we realized truly what was going on. And Connor-" He paused. "I suppose I should explain the family tree otherwise it's going to just be names thrown around to you."

Fenris waved a hand for him to go on as they descended the valley, and climbed the steep hill toward the tavern. While the castle was built well for defenses, the village was extremely vulnerable from two sides. A pincer attack, archers from above and a fleet of ships from the lake, and the town would be easily taken. Fenris wondered if such a thing ever happened, and why someone would think it a good idea to build in such an obviously exposed position. But neither he nor Anders were able to speak as the tavern door flung wide, a man in plate armor falling out onto the ground.

"Sorry, Bella!" came a voice from inside, high-pitched and harried.

Fenris watched, head slightly tilted as a mage with scraggly brown hair appeared in the doorway. He was followed by a very pretty woman with shoulder-length red hair, who leaned against the door frame with her arms crossed.

"I was just joking!" the man on the ground said, allowing the mage to pull him to his feet.

"Well take your jokes elsewhere," she said, irritated.

Anders spared a glance at Fenris before approaching.

The woman, Bella, looked up. Her eyes widened in recognition. "Anders?"

The other two turned as one and the brown haired mage threw himself at Anders with an elated cry. Fenris hung back, feeling slightly awkward with the reunion as they embraced. He surmised that this was the mage-Crusader pair they'd been sent to find. His eyes met the Crusader's – Carver Hawke. Fenris saw the resemblance at once. The same black hair, same jawline as his brother's.

"Easy, Jowan," Anders said, holding him at arm's length. "What's going on?"

"Carver-" Jowan started.

"Leave it," Carver scowled.

Bella sighed, rolling her eyes. "Anders, you want to come in for a drink? It's been ages. You look good."

"Oh sure, invite him!" Carver said, folding his arms.

"If I promise to look after him, can Carver come too?" Anders asked. "We have a lot to talk about."

Bella frowned but nodded. "You hungry, love?"

Anders looked back to Fenris, then to Bella. "Starving. We've been on the road for days. Would you mind?"

"I'll have Lloyd put the soup on. And you," she said to Carver, "hands to yourself."

Fenris watched as Carver scowled, and they followed Bella inside. The tavern itself was quite cozy, a roaring fire in the corner a nice change from the chilly outside air. Bella poured four cups of ale and set them down before retreating to the kitchen. Fenris noticed Jowan and Carver both looking at him with interest, the latter taking up his cup at once and drinking deeply.

"This is Fenris," Anders introduced. "Jowan and Carver – Hawke's brother."

Carver scowled. "You have to say it like that?"

"Hawke's the one who recruited Fenris into the Crusaders," Anders answered coolly. "You need to get over your inferiority complex."

"Your brother and sister send their regards," Fenris said amiably.

Jowan grinned and held out his hand. Fenris winced, but shook it, then Carver's. Anders touched him gently on the shoulder and though his first instinct was to pull away, he found himself leaning toward him instead.

"So he just joins and gets a mage right away?" Carver asked.

"You're so tactless," Jowan sighed. "That's how we got thrown out of the castle."

"No," Carver countered. "We got thrown out because that frigid bitch-"

"Carver!" Jowan admonished. "You can't talk about the Arlessa like that!"

"Yeah? Who's gonna stop me?"

"Me," Anders replied, unbuttoning the front of his cloak to let Ser Pounce-a-lot out.

Jowan cooed immediately and reached over to pull the cat into his lap. There was a bit of a struggle as Ser Pounce-a-lot tried to escape, but eventually settled when Jowan scratched him under the chin.

"He's gotten bigger," Jowan noted.

"You mean fatter," Anders said, sipping his ale. He looked at Carver. "Why do I get the feeling it's not Jowan Lady Isolde has a problem with?"

"Oh she does," Jowan insisted. "But Carver makes it worse."

Fenris wondered idly how these two became a pair, if Irving and Greagoir and Karl simply liked to see their mage-Crusader pairings fight constantly. Some animosity between himself and Anders was expected, he supposed. They barely knew one another and had widely differing views. But Jowan and Carver seemed as alike as cats and dogs. Though he didn't have much to compare it to. Hawke and Bethany got along just fine and didn't have the usual fights siblings seemed to have. Jowan and Carver, though seemed an unlikely team.

"So the First Enchanter got the letters I've been sending," Jowan said. "Thank you, Bella," he added, as she set four bowls of soup in front of them along with a loaf of bread.

Anders smiled at her and she blushed, returning it. Fenris frowned, ignoring the slight jealousy he felt at the exchange. It was a feeling he knew well, something he experienced whenever Danarius favored another slave. He put it down to their bond, a mix of emotions that weren't his own, and being in an unfamiliar place surrounded by people Anders knew well, but he'd yet to become comfortable with. He started in on his soup, thanking Anders in an undertone as the mage cut him a slice of bread.

"We're going to talk to Lady Isolde and Arl Eamon," Anders said. "We're actually on a different assignment, but Redcliffe was on our way. Irving wanted us to try to talk to her about Connor." He looked at Fenris. "The family tree." He sighed. "The king is the bastard son of King Maric, who's the brother-in-law of Eamon Guerrin. Connor is Eamon and Isolde's son, who happens to be a mage."

"Who unleashed an army of undead on the town," Carver said around a mouthful of bread.

"That wasn't his fault," Jowan admonished. "He didn't know what he was doing! The demon offered him help for his father, and he wasn't fully trained and-"

"The boy is a blood mage?" Fenris asked, speaking for the first time, head spinning slightly as he tried to keep it all straight.

Jowan frowned at him, letting Ser Pounce-a-lot go. The cat hopped up onto the table and down to Fenris's side of the bench, curling there with a paw on his thigh.

"He's not a blood mage," Jowan insisted. "He's just a confused kid."

"It was your job to train him, wasn't it?" Fenris asked, keeping his eyes level on Jowan. "To teach him how to control his magic?"

"It wasn't… it…"

Carver frowned, swallowing. "Don't you dare blame Jowan, elf," he interrupted sharply. "You weren't here when everything happened."

"No," Fenris conceded. "But it sounds like the mage failed to do his duty, yet you were left behind here to try to cull the damage that was-"

"Stop talking about it like you know what happened!" Carver shot, standing up.

"Boys, please," Bella said from behind the bar, exasperated.

Anders lifted a hand to her in appeasement and glared at Carver. "Sit down. You're acting like an idiot."

Carver returned the glare. "And he's acting like he knows everything!"

Fenris raised an eyebrow. Perhaps there was something to Carver and Jowan's relationship after all. Jowan seemed weak to him, a bit simpering. Whereas Carver was obviously a hothead. They seemed to balance one another.

"Regardless of blame," Anders said calmly, "no one can teach the boy anything if we're not allowed in the castle. Did Isolde throw you out, or Eamon?"

Jowan shifted uncomfortably. "Isolde had Teagan escort us. He said he'd speak to us today, but he hasn't come to the village yet."

Anders sighed.

"Teagan?" Fenris asked, looking at him, feeling the mage's irritation.

"Eamon's brother. Bann of Rainesfere. He took control of Redcliffe when his brother fell ill," Anders explained. "He's usually quite reasonable. I can only assume that he's buying time to wait for Irving's response. Is Eamon in Redcliffe right now, or did he go to Denerim?"

"He left for Denerim to help King Alistair," Jowan said, finishing his soup. "The king needs it, too. They're talking about a pact with Orlais. With Empress Celene."

Carver smirked. "Lucky Alistair."

Jowan rolled his eyes. "I think it's horrible for the king, honestly. Being forced into a loveless marriage for the sake of the kingdom."

"It's a king's duty," Anders said, "though I agree. But we need the help Orlais can provide. Better they're our allies through a loveless marriage than our enemy, especially with no heir to the throne."

Fenris's head ached as he contemplated the politics. In Tevinter, there was a constant power struggle, but the Archon always appointed an heir before his death. Though the real power resided in the senate. A kingdom ruled by a monarchy was a different set of politics altogether. He had no doubt that there would be many vying for the throne, and for the king to produce an heir sooner than later would obviously be beneficial, even if that child was half-Orlesian.

"Right now," Anders added, draining his mug, thanking Bella when she refilled it, "we have to worry about the Church. Specifically Connor and what the course of action will be. Irving's given three options. The first is that we convince Isolde to let you both back into the castle and have Jowan continue Connor's training. The second-" He paused, glancing over at Fenris's still full cup. "Bella, do you have any wine?"

She brought them a bottle. Anders gestured to Fenris's cup, and Bella removed the untouched ale, filling a wine glass with the deep red liquid. Fenris frowned, but thanked her. He wasn't too fond of ale, but wine was something he had developed a taste for. And it wasn't bad, either, an Orlesian vintage that was rather fruity in flavor. He looked inquiringly at Anders, who shrugged, and continued to speak.

"The second option," Anders said, "would be ideal for everyone, especially Teagan. Lady Isolde and Connor would travel to the Church where Connor is trained properly."

Jowan nodded, seemingly resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to be allowed back into the castle. "You're going to have a hard time convincing the Arlessa to leave Redcliffe. She thinks that with the Arl gone, she's the only one who's capable of-"

"Bullshit," Carver said. "We've been here for ages and Teagan's done just fine when Eamon's elsewhere. She just goes to the chantry to pray and drops a few coins in the coffers to keep the Revered Mother happy."

"Lady Isolde is a member of the Chantry?" Fenris asked.

Anders scowled. "She favors them. Same religion, same Chant of Light, but it's all about mage rights," he said. "Or the restriction of them."

Fenris felt the mood swing over their bond, and reached out impulsively to touch Anders on the shoulder. Anders calmed at once, and sat back as Ser Pounce-a-lot climbed over Fenris's lap to get to his. He idly stroked the ginger fur.

"She hates mages," Jowan said. "I don't know why. We have a Church in Orlais and everything, and it's very popular!"

"You're so naïve," Carver sighed. "Just because it's popular doesn't mean everyone's going to like it."

"And just because she's Orlesian doesn't means she's a frigid-" Jowan broke off, catching Bella's eye as she came over to clear their bowls.

"Coffee, I think," Anders asked, looking up at her. "Please. And we'll need a room, Fenris and myself. And…" he looked at Jowan and Carver.

Carver scowled while Jowan nodded.

"Unless we can convince the Bann to let us stay at the castle," Anders added imploringly.

Bella touched his shoulder, smiling. "Of course. I'll go make up the rooms."

"You're a peach," he said, smiling as she left.

Fenris drained the last of his wine and set the glass aside before leaning forward. "Opposition is not the problem here. The problem is the boy. Everything else is secondary."

"Fenris is right," Anders said. "If Isolde doesn't let Jowan teach Connor, and if she refuses to go to the Church, Irving says we'll have to tell the Chantry. Which can pose a lot of awkward questions for all of us, namely why we didn't bring Connor in initially, and where the undead attacks really came from."

Carver shrugged. "Most of the people here are happy to think it was darkspawn."

"But if it were to come out that it was a mage that did it," Fenris said quietly, "then there would be a witch hunt for the boy. How old is he?"

"Almost eleven," Jowan answered.

"A village angered with the memory of undead, with the losses of their own, set upon a small boy who simply didn't know any better," Fenris scoffed. "Ignorance is bliss. Let the people think it was darkspawn. And it will be Irving's responsibility to deal with the Chantry should the Arlessa decide not to accept our charity."

He felt a touch of gratitude from the mage through their bond, and tried not to respond in turn with more jealousy as Bella brought over a coffee pot and four mugs. He watched Jowan slide the sugar bowl to Carver, their silent exchange, a thanks from Carver as he spooned sugar into his coffee. They looked as if they finished each other's actions; perhaps they could communicate through their link more than just vague emotions. He wondered if that was how he and Anders appeared to others. There was something extremely intimate about Jowan and Carver's relationship, though they didn't appear to be lovers.

"I hope she doesn't go with that option," Jowan said sadly. "The Chantry." He let out a breath.

Anders made a sympathetic noise as he sipped his coffee. "It's her choice."

Jowan shifted uncomfortably and Carver nudged him a bit. Fenris wondered what that was about, but decided it was likely best not to ask. Bella set a room key down, Anders thanking her.

"Make sure that one keeps his hands to himself," she said, pointing at Carver, who responded with a, 'Who me?' look on his face that fooled no one.

"We have to talk to Murdock about supplies," Carver said, tossing a few coins on the table. "Are you going to see Teagan?"

Anders nodded. "Once we wash up a bit and get changed. Traveling on the road…"

Carver shrugged. "Come find us when you're done. Come on, Jowan."

Jowan finished his coffee and stood, taking his staff. He turned to Fenris. "It was good meeting you!"

Fenris nodded in response, and the door shut behind him, a gust of cool wind stealing its way into the main room. Anders sighed, slumping tiredly as he finished his coffee.

"Is everything all right?" Fenris asked, somewhat concerned. "The mage, he seemed a little…"

"Jowan. His name is Jowan," Anders said with another sigh. He stood, picking up Ser Pounce-a-lot and his pack. "I'll… try to explain."

Fenris followed Anders up the stairs. The second floor of the tavern was much larger than that of the Spoiled Princess. Their room which comprised two sets of bunk beds had a lake-facing window as well as a fireplace and a tub with a privacy screen. Anders tossed his bag on the floor and lit a fire before starting to undress.

"Jowan," he said, "was in love with a girl named Lily. A Chantry initiate."

"That's… fraternization under the Chantry?" Fenris guessed, placing his bag and sword down. He removed his cloak and started unbuckling his armor. Though he was hesitant to take it off, getting cleaned up before going to see Bann Teagan and Lady Isolde sounded wonderful.

"Yes," Anders said, tugging his tunic off. He threw it at Ser Pounce-a-lot, who mewled from underneath it, but didn't move. "She would've been reassigned right away, and he would've been punished. I knew him before I was transferred to the Church. He was a friend. Someone who didn't shy away because I had a weird name or couldn't speak the language."

Fenris watched Anders pull off his boots and pump water into the tub. His eyes lingered on the mage's back, which was crisscrossed with thin scars. He identified them as wounds from a whip, having seen it many times with other slaves. He even sported a few on his own back, and allowed himself a small amount of empathy for Anders.

"I heard about everything after and… don't bring it up to him."

"I won't," Fenris promised. He doubted he'd be speaking much to either Jowan or Carver. They would all be rather busy, hopefully.

Anders heated the water with a spell and pulled the screen to finish undressing. Fenris heard him settle into the tub, and then watched Ser Pounce-a-lot struggle out from under the tunic in order to follow him.

"Lily – the Chantry initiate – found out he was doing blood magic research. Stop scowling."

Fenris had opened his mouth to say something in retaliation to the words, 'blood magic,' but fell silent at that. Anders couldn't even see him, yet the mage correctly anticipated what his response was. He did scowl still, and bent to remove his boots.

"He never actually performed any blood magic," Anders insisted. "As far as I know. Irving would kill him, I think. The theory is studied in order to combat blood mages without forcing them into becoming abominations. Jowan… he's a good person. He's just not very talented."

"I couldn't tell," Fenris said, trying not to let his sarcasm consume the statement.

Anders chuckled. "Well. Anyway. There was an investigation, and they found out about the relationship he was in with Lily _and_ his research. Luckily Irving was there that weekend to look for converts to the Church, and Jowan was more or less dumped off on us. He was never Harrowed."

"Isn't that… against the rules? Also, dangerous."

"Bethany was never Harrowed," Anders said lightly. "Some mages slip through Chantry fingers. Besides, do you really think the Harrowing is a good idea?"

Fenris heard the screen being dragged across the floor, and glanced over to see Anders reaching up, pushing it aside to look at him. His hair was damp, slicked back, his face wet, steam coming off the surface of the water. Curled on the floor was Ser Pounce-a-lot, looking annoyed as Anders' arm dripped water onto his fur.

"No," Fenris said, and he was completely honest. His feelings for the magisters aside, he didn't think it was right for children to be forced into that situation. "You said… you said that going into the Fade to face a demon was only part of the Harrowing?"

Anders pulled his arm back into the tub and slumped down a little. Fenris watched him take a washcloth and soap. He could see the jewelry – the earring, the arm cuff, and Justice's amulet around his neck. He wondered how much the other pieces interfered, if at all, with their own. He pulled his sleeve up, touching the silver cuff around his left wrist.

"Templars stand by," Anders said finally. "You're told before you go in that one of them is assigned to kill you if you don't make it. If they think that you were tempted. Before you turn into an abomination. Or if you take too long. You're under a time crunch."

Fenris frowned. "Does that happen? Templars killing apprentices if they take too long."

Anders sank under the water briefly before taking up the soap again to scrub at his hair. "Sometimes. But for all the things the Chantry puts them through… the most common way for a Chantry mage to die is by their own hand."

Fenris frowned, looking down at the blanket on the bed, idly picking a bit of fuzz from the wool. "Some slaves have. In order to get out from their master's yoke." He looked at Anders. "Have you ever thought about it?"

Anders rinsed his hair, not answering for a moment while he removed the suds. "A few times," he admitted quietly.

Fenris clenched his fists, feeling a wash of grief between them. He resisted the urge to go over to try to calm Anders down, if only relieve himself of the sensation. "I am… glad you did not follow through."

Anders looked over. Fenris looked at him, tight-lipped, and nodded.

"Have you?" Anders asked gently.

Fenris shook his head. "No. I… I didn't know better."

He slid down to the foot of the bed, the screen and only a few steps separating himself from the mage now.

"Because of your memories."

Fenris nodded. "I suspected it's different when you think of the alternatives you have. For me, there were none. Not until Serehon."

Anders pulled the screen and Fenris heard him step out.

"So Jowan went to the Church," Fenris prompted.

Anders stepped out from behind the screen, towel wrapped around his waist. "Pump the water and I'll make sure it's heated," he said, crouching to dig through his bag.

Fenris stood and moved to the tub, which had drained. This inn was much nicer than the Spoiled Princess, the dwarven plumbing a definite plus. Though he didn't see the usual enchantments to heat the water; he suspected it would likely be pumped in cold from the lake and any non-mage bather would have to endure. At the very least, it was close to the fireplace. He filled it quickly and Anders heated it for him. Fenris undressed behind the screen, stepping over Ser Pounce-a-lot and into the tub.

"Jowan went to the Church," Anders confirmed. "He was paired up with Carver pretty quickly. Carver's talented, but his arrogance gets in his way. Jowan has the ability to be great, but his self-esteem is less than stellar. Irving and Karl did well with that pairing."

Fenris started to scrub the last few days from himself, feeling relaxed and comfortable in the warm water. "Why do you think that they put us together? We're not exactly…"

"Compatible? I know. I asked Karl."

"And did he provide any insight?" Fenris asked, and quickly ducked under the water. Though the spell that Anders had put on him rid him of most of the gore from the wolves, it was nothing to a proper wash with clean water.

"No," Anders laughed. "Half the things that man does will always remain a mystery to me."

"But you're rather fond of him," Fenris pressed.

"I am," Anders said.

Fenris could hear the smile in his tone. He suppressed the ripple of jealousy he felt. "I suppose time will tell. Am I allowed to take the cuff off?"

"No. You have to leave it on forever and always."

"I…" Fenris frowned. "Sarcasm."

Anders peered around the screen, smirking. "Quick on the uptake," he said, before disappearing.

Fenris scowled and removed the cuff, setting it aside. Immediately he felt the loss of another presence. It felt as if Anders had left the room, and he was suddenly alone. He moved to his knees and leaned forward, peering around the screen. The mage was still there, wearing a pair of trousers now, running a brush through his hair. He sat back, frowning.

"I feel it too," Anders confirmed, guessing at his silence. "When Justice…" He trailed off, and was silent for a few seconds.

"You don't have to talk about him if you don't wish to."

"No," Anders said, and appeared around the screen once more.

Fenris instinctively pulled his knees to his chest. It felt similar to when Danarius would bring him for a bath in the luxurious sunken tub in his estate. The dwarven plumbing in the inn was impressive, but it was nothing to Tevinter where there were showers in nearly every estate and bathhouses in all the important districts. He'd attended these with Danarius, where fat, naked magisters would sit around and talk of politics. It was quite boring. But bathing with his master was intimate. Personal. And it was a mark of pride for him to be able to use Danarius's personal chambers while the other slaves were stuck using the ones off the kitchens. They were jealous of and hated him for that among other things.

"When Justice died," Anders started again, his thumb running along the bristles of the brush. "It was like losing a limb." He reached up and touched the necklace almost unconsciously. "When he died, I felt it. We didn't… I don't know if he shielded his pain from me. Whenever we were in a battle together, when he took a hit, I didn't feel it physically. It's not as if you could wear the cuff and then stab yourself to make me feel it."

"There is a Rivaini practice that embraces that," Fenris said, running his hand through the water. When it was clear the mage wasn't going to leave, he sighed and started scrubbing soap through his hair.

"You have a wide range of cultural knowledge," Anders noted. "But I digress. I think he stopped me from feeling the pain. Not the physical, but the emotional distress that comes with it. Stupid thing to do, considering I was his healer."

"Not all mage-Crusader pairings are healers and warriors," Fenris mused. "I expect there aren't a lot of healers to begin with…"

"Sadly no," Anders said, and finally left him to his privacy.

Fenris uncurled and finished scrubbing himself off. Shivering, he stood, carefully stepping out of the tub and dried himself off with a towel before wrapping it around his waist. Anders was almost fully dressed now, in leather trousers and a fine linen shirt. He pulled on a dark green doublet which complemented his hair nicely.

"Did Greagoir give you something nice to wear?" Anders asked, nodding at Fenris's pack. "Not that I think it would matter if we showed up wearing the height of Orlesian fashion. Isolde has a strong distaste for mages. And elves."

Fenris mulled this over, pulling the black leggings from his pack. The white shirt was a bit large and slightly wrinkled, but the black leather jerkin would cover that. He glanced over his shoulder at Anders, who respectfully turned away as Fenris let the towel drop from his hips. He dressed quickly, running his fingers through his damp hair.

"Here," Anders said, and pushed him to the bed.

"I don't-"

But the brush was in his hair in seconds, and Fenris crossed his arms like a petulant child as Anders delicately worked through the knots.

"Making us both look presentable is the best way to convince her she needs our help."

Fenris shivered as the brush passed through his hair. This was not something Danarius had ever done for him, nor had any other slave do. Bathing him, yes, but dressing and brushing his hair were left to Fenris. He was fully capable of doing it himself, yet he let the mage finish without saying a word. When he was done, Fenris stood.

"Wait. Untuck your shirt," Anders said. "So it sticks out from the jerkin. It's more stylish."

"I don't think that Isolde-"

"She will care," Anders interrupted. "If she even glances your way."

Fenris untucked his shirt, following directions. He didn't have a mirror to look into, but decided to trust the mage's discretion. He took up the cuff from the table next to the bath and slipped it back on, inhaling sharply as he did. A wave of emotion that had slowly been building up through the link over the last few days overcame him and he nearly fell, gripping onto the bathing screen for balance. He looked over at Anders, who was kneeling on the floor, hand on the mattress.

"Mage, are you-"

"M'fine," Anders managed. "Warn me next time you're going to do that."

"I don't… perhaps it's best to leave it on from now on."

The intense rush of emotion was overwhelming, and he felt dizzy, head swimming. He released the screen and stumbled before regaining his equilibrium. Taking a breath, he reached down and took Anders by the arm, his markings flaring as a shock of electricity alighted every nerve in his body. Determined, he redoubled his grip and helped the mage to his feet. Anders looked down at where Fenris had him by the arm, and took his hand carefully.

"Extraordinary, the way my magic reacts to these," he said. "It has to be the link."

Fenris pulled away roughly, not sure he liked the way it felt. "Perhaps it is."

"Does it hurt?" Anders asked. "We can tell the First Enchanter-"

"No. It's unnerving. But no. Save your concern," he said sharply. He could feel it pulsing through their bond, which was also unnerving. Strange to have someone care about him. It felt similarly to Danarius, almost, though he knew that the concern Anders had for him wasn't due to the fact that he was a piece of property.

"Right. Right, far be it from me to actually worry about a companion. Maker's breath, just when I think you're starting to become tolerable." Anders pulled on his boots and grabbed his cloak, looking at Ser Pounce-a-lot who was curled up in the middle of the bed. "Stay."

Ser Pounce-a-lot let out a heavy purr and closed his eyes.

Fenris pulled on his boots and cloak, choosing to ignore the insult for now, and followed Anders out of the room. Hopefully their meeting with the Arlessa would go better than they anticipated.


	10. Chapter 10

The soldiers at the gate checked their papers and waved them through. Fenris was somewhat amused when the guards in the courtyard barely gave them a second glance, huddled around large bonfires to keep warm in the chill. Either he and Anders didn't look like threats, or the guards trusted their counterparts to do their jobs properly. The security certainly seemed somewhat lax to him. Perhaps Redcliffe believed they were finally out of danger. Anders nodded to the guard that opened the door for them and they found themselves in a large, brightly lit stone hall. The tapestries on the walls depicted old battles and he itched to go over and investigate, but wanted to get the task at hand over with first.

"What is it?" Fenris asked, feeling a bit of trepidation through their link.

"I don't know." Anders was frowning. "Usually there's a servant or a steward or someone to meet us."

"We didn't exactly announce our intention to come here," Fenris noted. "Perhaps they're dining?"

"Maybe," he agreed, looking around. "It's been ages since I've been here. Everything is just how I remember it."

They cautiously approached the next room. It too was empty. Fenris strained to hear sounds of life, but the castle was quiet.

"Well. We could always wander aimlessly until someone finds us," Anders suggested.

"And possibly get thrown out for trespassing while you insist that you know the Bann. We should wait," Fenris said.

A ripple of irritation crossed through their bond and Anders turned to him, about to retort when an elven girl hurried into the room. Her tawny hair was drawn back into a loose ponytail and her dress, while in good condition, was simple and befitting a servant. She looked horribly nervous, hands clutched in front of her.

"Begging your pardons!" she squeaked with a curtsy. "The Arlessa is not receiving guests today!"

Anders raised an eyebrow. "We're here to see Bann Teagan, actually."

The girl shifted uncomfortably. "My apologies, but… but…"

Fenris cleared his throat, stepping forward. "We don't want to get you into any trouble. Just point us to where the Bann is and you can pretend you never saw us. We were already gone by the time you got to the hall, right?"

The girl looked from Fenris to Anders, then back to Fenris and nodded. "They'll be in the library. Through the door, up the stairs and to the right."

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

They watched her curtsy again and hurry off. Fenris frowned at the surge of affection he felt from the mage.

_Gratitude,_ he identified.

"That was easy enough," Anders said lightly.

"The servants here are not treated well," Fenris noted. "She wasn't afraid of us. She was afraid of what the Arlessa would do to her."

"You don't think the Arlessa flogs her servants, do you?" Anders asked, sounding upset, almost angry.

Fenris pursed his lips, reaching out to brush his fingers against Anders' arm. The feeling of distress was dampened, and he saw the mage's face flush before he looked away.

"No," he said, and nodded up the stairs. They moved out of the hall, and Fenris tried to explain. "I've seen slaves who've been beaten regularly. Body language means a lot. She's frightened. She's likely experienced quite a bit of humiliation and anger with a superior. But as far as flogging… likely not."

"That's not…" Anders frowned, searching for words, for the feelings to describe the anger he felt. "It isn't exactly reassuring."

"It doesn't make you feel better to know they rule through fear than flogging," Fenris stated. "Hmph. Most would think that she was getting off easy. That there are crueler things a master can do than intimidate. Some people would think _your_ punishment was simple. Solitary confinement."

Anders fell silent.

"…I'm sorry," Fenris said, slightly confused at the silence and not willing to have another fight right before they were to see the Bann. "I was merely stating that you appear to empathize."

"Did Karl tell you?" Anders asked, almost a whisper. "About solitary?"

Fenris frowned, realizing he'd said too much. He'd promised Karl he would keep quiet about what he'd been told, and he'd forgotten. "Yes. We… discussed you a bit."

There was a flash of annoyance across their bond and Fenris flinched ever so slightly when Anders reached out to touch his hand.

"I suppose you'll learn most of my secrets soon enough."

Fenris nodded, the trepidation he felt just a moment ago sliding away with Anders' fingertips. "It has… gotten easier. These past few days."

Anders smiled slightly. "Yes. I suppose it has. Still a ways to go though."

They rounded the corner once they reached the top of the stairs. There was no door on the library, just a large archway with two soldiers standing guard outside, talking quietly. Anders cleared his throat and they looked over, hands on the pommels of their swords. Fenris felt extremely vulnerable, having left his armor in the inn, though his greatsword still was strapped to his back.

"Gentlemen," Anders said. "We're just here to see Bann Teagan."

"Who are you?" one of them asked. "How did you get in?"

"Envoys from the Church of Andraste. The First Enchanter has a few words he needs passed on," Anders said, hands spread in a gesture of peace.

Fenris knew better. If the mage so wanted to, the guards could be roasting inside their armor in a matter of seconds. Magisters in Tevinter fought in the streets; he knew their power. He didn't think anyone who hadn't consorted with demons would be as formidable as them, but watching Anders fight had shown him he was likely wrong in that assessment. Just knowing the mage had helped to take down an archdemon forced him to realize that he had a very capable partner. The thought relieved and terrified him. What if Anders were to turn that power on him? Would he be able to fight him off?

More now than ever he wanted to spar with the mage, to learn what he could do fully, and to practice stopping him. Why had they been sent out right away? Surely a letter to Isolde would have sufficed. The Warden could have requisitioned another mage-Crusader pairing for his mission. Not for the first time, he felt unprepared.

The guard was speaking again. "The Arlessa has ordered all Church delegates from the castle. She's not-"

"We want to see Bann Teagan," Anders interrupted. "He knows me. Tell him Anders is here and wishes to speak with him."

"Or you can simply let us through to deliver the message ourselves," Fenris interjected.

He bristled as the guards looked at him, at his ears, their eyes dragging over his markings. They dismissed him just as quickly and looked back to Anders.

"Just a second," one said, and stepped into the library and out of sight.

Anders turned to him, eyebrows raised. "It's clear they don't think much of elves here," he said, loud enough for the other guard to hear him. "It's a shame, considering our king values your contribution and the Warden-Commander asked for you personally. I'd hate to be the one to have to tell them that racism is still alive and well and in Redcliffe of all places. I expected it from the back country, maybe South Reach or Gwaren but not in a progressive town like this one."

Fenris was momentarily confused, then understood as the guard sputtered a bit, likely trying to save face. 

Anders turned back to him, eyes narrowed and glaring. "Something to add, guardsman?" he asked, arms folded.

But they were interrupted as the first guard returned with a man in tow. Bann Teagan was tall and broad, with chin-length brown hair that was shot through with grey. He looked tired, almost harried, but smiled when he saw Anders and immediately reached to shake his hand.

"It's good to see you again, my boy," he said, taking Anders's hand in both of his. "Irving finally let you out of your cage?"

Anders laughed. "I've been assigned, Teagan. A proper Church mage again. This is Fenris, recent recruit of the Crusaders."

Teagan offered his hand, and Fenris tried not to wince as they shook. "Let me be the first to extend my apologies, Ser Fenris."

Fenris frowned, brows knitting. "I'm sorry?"

"Anyone who has to put up with Anders at length surely deserves no less than a medal. Maker only knows how Justice managed," he said with a wink.

"Oh very funny," Anders said, but he was smiling. "Speaking of insufferability, where is Lady Isolde?"

Teagan's smile faded at the mention of the name, or perhaps it was the insult to his sister-in-law, Fenris couldn't tell. He glanced back at the guards, then into the library, and then gestured down the hall opposite. "We'll use Eamon's study to talk."

They walked the hall, Fenris falling slightly behind the other two as they spoke about the Church, the rebuilding in Denerim, and Anders himself.

"And how did you come to be in the Crusaders?" Teagan asked eventually, looking back to Fenris.

While Fenris was glad for the effort that the Bann was making, he was more or less used to people ignoring him. Jowan and Carver had treated him as equals. This felt more to him like an adult indulging a child.

"Hawke recruited me," he answered simply.

"Ah. He's a good man," Teagan said, nodding.

"Eamon's in Denerim again?" Anders asked, feeling the discomfort through the bond, or perhaps he could tell from Fenris's tone.

"Alistair requested his aid. Poor boy's in over his head, I think. He's just like his father."

He opened the door to the arl's office and sat behind the desk, gesturing at the seats across from him. Anders and Fenris sat, the former leaning forward eagerly.

"I thought the reconstruction was well in hand," Anders said. "We sent so many out, and I know the Chantry answered his request for aid."

"The reconstruction is not the problem," Teagan said with a sigh. "Nor is training the army to make up for our losses. It's Orlais."

Fenris felt Anders tense. "Orlais? Do they mean to invade?" he asked, before Anders had a chance.

Teagan shook his head. "No. Alistair received a letter from Empress Celene. She wants to come to Denerim to offer her condolences."

"So there's to be a marriage after all," Anders said, sitting back. He shrugged. "I don't see how an alliance with Orlais will be a bad thing."

"I agree with you there," Teagan said. "She's a calculating woman, very smart. And Orlais needs us as allies right now as well. But Alistair misses the finer points of socialization. He was raised to be a knight, not a nobleman. It was suggested that the Warden-Commander stay with him for a time to teach him, but the rebuilding of the Wardens in Ferelden is a greater need at the moment. Especially when there are others such as my brother who can assist. He will advise Alistair properly."

"You're not giving him nearly enough credit."

Fenris heard the irritation in Anders' voice and over their bond.

"Templar training aside, he's not a wild dog," Anders continued. "His jokes are as terrible as Hawke's, but he's a perfect gentleman. I think he can handle Empress Celene."

Teagan shook his head, sighing. "It goes deeper than that. I've met Empress Celene. Orlesian politics are a bit trickier than Ferelden's. Her cousin is vying for her throne, and quite a few who are close to her would see this marriage as a betrayal to her country."

Anders scoffed. "As I'm sure some nobles here would think the same about Alistair marrying her. But none of them would see the bigger picture, would they?"

Fenris remained silent, thinking. A stronger tie between Orlais and Ferelden could mean a united front. The lower half of Thedas would have a strong alliance against other countries in the north. Perhaps it would improve relations with the Chantry and the Church as well.

"I'm not saying that your anger isn't justified," Teagan said gently. "But you can't force people to see things from your point of view."

"Even if it's a completely sane, logical point of view," Anders huffed.

"They believe they are right as well," Fenris added. "Orlais presumably lost a lot in the war. There are people who would remember that. Ones that would see their Empress's marriage as weakening their own country. The only thing to do is to push forward and show everyone how this will work out."

"Bloody thickheaded idiots," Anders muttered.

Fenris smirked, almost a smile. He was getting used to Anders and his obstinacy. Teagan caught his eye and tilted his head slightly in a subtle gesture of gratitude.

"Now," Teagan said, leaning back in his brother's chair, fingertips drumming on the wood of the arm. "There's another reason you're here, other than to talk about Alistair, I'm sure. Regarding Carver and Jowan?"

Anders sat up a little straighter. "The First Enchanter is proposing an ultimatum about Connor."

"Oh Maker's breath, Isolde will love this."

Fenris pursed his lips, shifting in his seat as Anders continued.

"The best option is having her leave Redcliffe with Connor."

Teagan shook his head. "She won't accept that. She wants to stay in Eamon's absence."

"You're more than capable of ruling this place," Anders urged him, sliding forward in his chair now, forearm resting on the desk. "You did an impeccable job when Eamon was ill. Maker forbid he dies anytime soon, but he's not a young man, and certainly not the most healthy. Who'll take over then? Not Connor. The boy is a mage and doesn't stand to inherit a thing. You're next in line, not her."

Fenris again marveled at the differences between Ferelden laws and Tevinter's. Mages couldn't inherit here? It would be unheard of in the Imperium.

Teagan sighed. "Yes. When the time comes, I will likely become arl. Technically speaking though, right now Isolde outranks me. And if she wishes to stay in Redcliffe, it is her rightful home and I have no authority to send her away. Eamon could. He could order Connor to the Church, though we were hoping to avoid that."

"I don't think that's an option anymore," Anders said sadly. "From hearing Jowan tell his side."

"She doesn't like the idea of mages in her household."

"Then she's an idiot," Fenris said quietly.

Anders looked at him sidelong. "Fenris?"

"Her son is a mage. Mages are born to the mundane all the time. I realize that it's more of a stain here than a mark of honor, but the boy is her son and if she chooses to disdain mages, then she must disdain him. If she tosses Jowan to the streets," he said, gesturing toward the door, "then why not do the same with her son? She's a hypocrite."

"Now see here-" Teagan began, growing slightly red in the face. It seemed that he could tolerate a certain amount of antipathy for Isolde, but perhaps Fenris had gone too far.

"He's right," Anders said, and Fenris lifted his chin defiantly, feeling a flutter of anxiety and gratitude. "Isolde has three choices." He counted them on his fingers. "She can go to the Church with Connor. She can send the boy by himself. Or Irving contacts the Chantry."

Teagan's face went from red to white, his expression hardening. Though he liked Anders and was familiar enough with him to banter and joke, there was no mirth now in that tight-lipped smile. "Irving would contact the Chantry." It was not a question, his voice flat.

"Yes," Anders answered anyway. "And he'd rather not. We would all rather not. No one wants that for Connor. No one wants that for any mage."

"It seems you're in the best position to give Lady Isolde her options," Fenris said, feeling slowly more comfortable with his duties. He fell in step with Anders, agreed with him. Connor had already proven to be dangerous. He needed guidance. But pitting him against a demon in the Chantry's Circle would likely get the boy killed. He'd already shown he was weak. The Church could teach him otherwise. Find him a suitable match with a strong Crusader who could watch him. Or otherwise he could stay in the Circle, surrounded by others like him who could stop him from going down the wrong path.

"I'd rather not deliver the ultimatum to her," Anders agreed. "But I will if you'd like me to. We're technically on official Church business." He withdrew a letter from his coat and handed it to Teagan, who reached to take it.

"I see," Teagan said, reading it over. He closed his eyes, thumb and forefinger massaging the bridge of his nose. "I'll speak to her tonight." He tossed the paper on the desk with the others and looked to Anders. "Will you be staying in the castle?"

"We have a room at the inn," Anders said. "But we wouldn't say no to the hospitality."

Fenris glanced at him, but Anders gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Teagan missed it, standing up. They followed suit.

"I'll give the guards the order not to hassle you. You remember where the guest wing is?"

"I do," Anders replied easily, reaching out to shake Teagan's hand. "It's for the best. You'll see. I'll speak with Jowan and Carver in regards to escorting the arlessa and her son up north. How long do think it would take for them to be ready?"

Teagan frowned, Fenris noticing how the man took to the assumption that Isolde would be convinced. "Two days, perhaps. She'll likely want to pack properly."

"No doubt," Anders said airily, an edge of sarcasm in his tone belying his true annoyance. Fenris felt it through their connection. "We'll see you in the morning then, Bann Teagan?"

"I suspect you will."

Fenris heard the dismissal in his tone and followed Anders out, wondering how the conversation had managed to turn from amiable to disagreeable so quickly. Was it the subject matter? Anders' attitude? Or was the initial friendliness merely a cover for their animosity? Fenris didn't think he'd misread their relationship. From the way everyone spoke of Lady Isolde, she was nothing more than a frustrating bitch. He didn't envy Teagan having to speak with her, and hoped he'd never come face to face with her. If her treatment of her servants was any indication of her love for elves, or lack thereof, he highly doubted he would be able to remain civil with her.

"Once we get outside," Anders said, answering the unspoken question.

They walked in silence through the halls, passing the occasional servant or guard. The sun was setting when they exited into the courtyard, Anders giving a half-wave to the guard who'd checked his papers coming in. Fenris shivered as a biting wind blew across the lake and he slipped on the icy stones. Anders steadied him instinctively. Fenris grunted his thanks, still unused to the weather. Had he known Ferelden in winter would be so intolerable, he might not have chosen it as the next country to run to. But then, he reasoned, he never would have joined the Crusaders. He never would have met Anders or Hawke or Dagna.

_Or Bethany._

"It went better than I expected," Anders said, stopping his train of thought before it got started.

"That was better? He seemed less than happy."

"Better that and receptive than coolly dismissive. And I won't have to speak to Lady Isolde," he added with relief. "With a little bit of extra luck on our side, she'll understand that her son will be safer in the Church, since she's so opposed to Jowan training him."

Fenris gave a grunt, eyes trained on the stone bridge they crossed, watching for any more icy patches. "It's understandable, considering how inept he appears to be." He blanched at the immediate flash of annoyance he felt.

"I will throw you into the lake," Anders said, his tone clipped.

"No you would not. You'd have to go through the trouble of thawing me out after." Fenris smirked, looking at Anders who was just visible in the fading light. The mage wore an ambivalent expression of frustration and amusement.

"Maybe I would just let Jowan use you for fireball target practice," Anders pointed out. "As penance for your rudeness."

Fenris chuckled. He much preferred this easy banter to their previous arguments. "Regarding target practice. We should perhaps-"

"It's not a bad idea," Anders agreed, finishing his thought. "Now that we do have Jowan and Carver here, we can work together rather than against one another. I know the castle has a training room, but I doubt our invitation to stay extends to them, and the less magic getting thrown around the castle, the better. If Isolde were to find out, we might find ourselves banned from Redcliffe until Eamon gave a pardon."

"There's an entire section of town that's burnt down," Fenris pointed out as they passed back through the gates that separated the castle path from the rest of the town.

"You lost your footing once on the ice already. I'd rather not have to treat you for wounds resulting from rusty nails and broken boards."

Fenris scowled. "I am not clumsy, mage," he spat. "Simply unused to icy terrain and this would be good practice, regardless. If you're unwilling-"

"Easy," Anders soothed. "I was only joking. But good to know. Quips about tossing you in the lake: okay. Jokes about your bad footing: not okay."

Trying to shield his wounded pride, and hating that the mage affected him so thoroughly, Fenris shrugged a shoulder. "It's fine."

"You're the most fickle, difficult person I believe I've ever had the misfortune of working with. Not even Justice-" But Anders cut off, and Fenris could see him shake his head in the dark. Sometimes it was a difficult topic for Anders to talk about, he realized. "Let's find Jowan and Carver and we'll see if they're up for a bit of sparring."

Fenris followed him to the town proper, felt Anders' irritation stirring in his own chest when they passed the chantry building. A large bonfire crackled at the edge of the lake, the lone source of light now the sun sunk down behind the Frostback Mountains. Fenris saw a dozen or more silhouettes, heard the sound of raucous singing. Anders reached up and pulled on his cloak, urging him forward, their boots crunching in the snow.

"Well met!" one of the men called out, and Anders lifted a hand in greeting. "Is it - Oi, Murdock, it's Anders!"

"I _told_ you he was in town," said another voice that Fenris recognized as Jowan's.

They stepped into the circle the light provided and Fenris saw their faces properly. A man with a full, ruddy beard and longish hair held a bottle out to Anders, who took it, taking a swig. Anders doubled over, coughing, wiping his mouth, and Fenris fought the urge to go to him at once to see if he was okay.

"That's a strong grog," Anders said, coughing still, handing the bottle back to Murdock.

"Orzammar special."

"What are we celebrating?" Anders asked, nodding to Jowan, waving him over.

Fenris sneered slightly. The mage was already drunk, it seemed. There would likely be no sparring practice tonight. He wondered how long they planned on staying in Redcliffe, what time of time crunch they were under when it came to their travels. Would the Warden be waiting for them? Annoyed? Was this proper when it came to an assignment? Jowan and Carver - wherever he was - certainly didn't seem to be bothered by getting drunk and slacking off.

"My daughter's getting married," Murdock said, gesturing past the crowd to the edge of the lake, where the dancing was primarily happening.

Fenris scowled, ears twitching at the horrible screeching of some careless lute player. And from what he could hear, the man had a voice to match. "You would think you'd spare no expense to get your daughter a better entertainer."

Murdock's eyes slid from Anders to Fenris, an appraising eye upon him. Fenris clenched his fists as the mayor's eyes went from his face to his ears, the familiar flick of acknowledgment, the subtle change in expression he was used to. He could hear the unspoken racism as clearly as if Murdock called him a knife-ear.

"Like you could do better, friend?" Murdock said carefully, his tone indicating that Fenris, Crusader or no, was no friend of his.

"Hey, what's for eating?" Anders interjected, clearly eager to steer the conversation from dangerous waters.

"Yes," Fenris said simply. He snatched the bottle from Murdock's hand, took a swing, wincing but refusing to cough on what tasted like turpentine and old dishwater, and marched up to the lute player. "I'll take over."

The man looked up to Murdock who, with an amused gleam in his eye, gestured his approval. Fenris took the lute and the man's spot, handing the grog to Anders before adjusting the catgut strings, running the pad of his thumb over them. The lute was small, fit for his stature, and he tapped out a beat with his booted foot against the wooden dais before letting muscle memory take over. He was no longer in Redcliffe, in Ferelden. He was back in Tevinter, sitting in a large comfortable chair in the corner with two other slaves who followed him with a violin and flute. He played the song one of his master's many teachers had forced him to practice for the wedding ceremony. It was Magister Desidario's daughter who'd just been married, Danarius offering the entertainment, Magister Faustinus the refreshment and Senator Brexio the venue.

Danarius was determined the entertainment would be the only thing on anyone's lips when they left the party. He had Fenris practice for hours on end for days that turned into weeks until his fingers bled perfection. He remembered vividly the party, the feeling of elation when the occupants in the room stopped as he opened his mouth to sing, how they stared, how they applauded when he was finished. How proud Danarius was of him when they were finally allowed to go home. Fenris curled up in bed next to him...

He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, and sang. The story of a man who'd fallen so deeply, desperately in love with a woman. Of course, he never knew the song in the common tongue, and likely it wouldn't translate from its ancient Tevene very well. It didn't matter. All that mattered was the feeling that it evoked. He kept his eyes closed, fingers knowing the melody, and lost himself in the story he told. This one was not of tragedy, in which so many ancient Tevinter songs ended. The couple married and grew old together, watching every sunrise and kissing by every sunset. They weren't rich but had many children and were happy until their last day. They died together and were buried under an olive tree on the hill so they could continue to watch every sunrise and stay together every sunset.

His mouth was dry, lips cold and chapped when he stopped, unused to using his vocal cords in such a way anymore. It had been years since he'd sung anything, and looked up, expecting the villagers to politely hide their tittering behind their hands as they judged his rusty voice. And people were staring, but not in judgment. In the flickering light of the bonfire he saw them, mouths slightly opened, eyes wide. The woman dressed in white, the one he presumed to be the bride, was crying. He frowned, placed the lute aside and stood, ready to give an apology if he'd caused offense. As rude as Murdock was to him, having antagonized the village would likely cause issues for the Church and Fenris knew Greagoir would be displeased.

The woman, the same ruddy hair as her father, though piled elegantly atop her head in an exquisite knot with ringlets framing her face, rushed toward him. He stepped back, banging into the crate he'd been sitting on as she seized his hands. He saw the tears on her cheeks, her brown eyes bright and glassy as she pressed her lips to his fingers.

"That was beautiful, Ser," she whispered.

Fenris looked around wildly, extremely uncomfortable, though it was clear her tears were of happiness rather than any anger or frustration. Anders was there in an instant, arm around his shoulders as he gently pulled him away. The close contact would have normally annoyed him, the feel of magic in his very skin irritating. And though he and Anders were often at odds, he found nothing but relief in the touch now. Applause broke the silence and soon the music started up again along with the dancing and general sounds of merriment. Fenris, however, allowed himself to be tugged from the cabal, up the sloping, snowy path toward the inn. The bonfire became a dot in the distance, and he shook himself, remembering where he was, the memories of his performance fading with realization.

"I think you proved your point," Anders said, leading him into the inn.

"He's racist," Fenris replied, frowning, realizing the mage's arm was still around him. He shrugged it off, and Anders let him go easily.

They climbed the stairs toward their room.

"Your voice is..."

Fenris shrugged, and Anders glanced sidelong at him.

"Well it's quite good," Anders finished. "Another hidden talent?"

"My master demanded perfection," Fenris explained simply with no wish to expand upon it. The memories of the party and what came after were best left forgotten in the dust.

Either through their bond or from the body language, Anders seemed to understand. He didn't push further, and simply gathered his things along with Ser Pounce-a-lot, who gave a resentful mewling at being woken up and packed with the rest of the belongings.

"What were the words?" Anders asked.

"It's a story about a couple in love." Fenris gave him a brief summary as they made their way back to the castle. He supposed their sleeping arrangements would be vastly improved upon entering. The guards didn't give them a second glance, either. "It was written by a member of the ancient Imperium. Gaius Catus. He wrote over three thousand love poems during the course of his life. He was in love with his cousin who was promised to another man. She, herself, did not love either man and instead was said to desire a chestnut colored stallion. Eventually she ran off with the horse and was murdered by bandits somewhere along the Minanter River. They found her body and buried her in the family crypt, and mounted the horse's head in her father's hunting lodge."

He glanced over, unable to help the laugh that bubbled up at Anders' disbelieving expression.

"You're having me on," Anders said finally.

"I am not," Fenris insisted. "It's history."

Anders huffed. "Not in any book I've ever read."

Fenris smirked. "Every magister knows the tale and tries to claim their heritage back to Gaius Catus. He was a powerful mage, though he eventually fell into depression after his cousin died. Ended up hanging himself on the Minrathous bridge. They say where he's buried, a rose bush sprang up from the soil to represent the hardships of love."

Anders laughed. "Now that's a story. You're very good at telling them. Among other things. You know," he said, finding the guest room Teagan had set up for them, "you're full of the strangest surprises."

Fenris raised an eyebrow, but tilted his head in acknowledgment as he followed Anders in. "I suppose I am after all."


	11. Chapter 11

The beds in the castle were extremely soft, the feather pillows comfortable, and the thick stone blocked out any unwanted noise. Only the sounds of the fire dying and the soft snores of Anders' cat were heard in the opulent guest chambers. Which, Fenris reasoned, was likely why he was still awake. It wasn't the stillness or the silence that woke him intially. He attributed that to his dreams, and his eyes snapped open only an hour or two after he'd fallen asleep. Remembering the party where he'd been forced to entertain Danarius's… no, they weren't friends. Associates? Fellow senators? It made his dreams of Tevinter all the more vivid and he awoke, sweating and desperately thirsty.

He slid from the bed, having to step down, the mattress slightly higher than hip-height. Anders with his oddly long legs found it easy to move into and out of bed, but Fenris felt almost like a child and wondered if Redcliffe ever saw elven guests. He was too used to the Free Marches. The inns there accommodated all sorts. Of course Kirkwall had its own alienage, but as the city itself was lousy with poverty-stricken inhabitants, no one really gave elves a second glance as lesser citizens. Ferelden appeared to subscribe to a more archaic view and he wondered if he would feel defensive constantly as they traveled to different towns. At least the Warden-Commander, whenever they met up with him, would hopefully be accompanied by his elven lover. It would certainly be preferable to be on even footing as far as companionship was concerned. Not that Anders had an aversion to elves, but he would likely feel a bit more comfortable with another elf on the journey.

As he slipped from the room in search of the privy, he thought about the mage he left behind. Still sound asleep, dreams untroubled from a past as a slave, and Fenris felt slightly guilty. His nightmares of Danarius had already leaked into Anders' unconscious mind. Either they hadn't since the night at the Spoiled Princess, or Anders was keeping it from him that they were happening. He wouldn't thank him for keeping it a secret. They were, after all, supposed to be keeping one another safe. That meant consciously as well as not. Perhaps Irving or Greagoir knew a way he could shield his dreams from Anders, to keep him from experiencing bits of his past. It was odd, he thought, that he hadn't seen any of Anders' dreams. Was the mage somehow keeping them from him? Or did the jewelry not work that way? He looked down at the cuff on his wrist, pulling up the long sleeve of his nightshirt to look at the silver.

"Because, Isolde, he could end up in Kinloch. Is that what you want?"

Fenris paused, frowning as he looked up. The hall was empty, the stones cold against his bare feet. The torches that hung on the walls were burning out, his shadow elongated against the floor as he crept forward. It was Teagan's voice, there was no mistaking it. Fenris realized he must've gotten turned around or taken a wrong step in his reverie and ended up on the other side of the castle. He recognized the corridor and the library arch ahead. The bann's voice carried, and the woman's voice that followed must have been Isolde's, her Orlesian accent thick with concern.

"But I cannot leave!"

Fenris felt a grudging gratitude toward his upbringing. Slaves were meant to be neither seen nor heard, and he moved silently in the flickering light. A careful assessment of the library's foyer and he saw Teagan sitting on a couch, Isolde pacing in front of him. Wondering how much trouble it would cause if he were caught, Fenris slipped inside. The tall shelves provided ample cover and, rogue-like, he moved amongst them until he was tucked behind one, a row away from the sitting area. He could see through the gap in the books Teagan's relaxed posture, the man's frown. Isolde wrung her hands as she walked to and fro.

"I have Redcliffe well in hand," Teagan assured her.

"That is not what I mean, Teagan!" she snapped.

Her accent dragged out the syllables, and Fenris wondered how he didn't flinch. Her voice was piercing, though he was fairly sure she was trying to be quiet.

"Irving's threatening Chantry involvement if we don't agree. I know you don't like Jowan, Isolde, but if the man had been allowed to stay-"

"You would have that idiot teach Connor?"

Fenris clenched his fist, pressing it against the floor as he crouched, feeling angry on Jowan's behalf. Even if the mage was an idiot, how dare this woman insult him like that? Had she been speaking of Anders, Fenris wasn't sure he'd have been able to keep quiet. The possessiveness he felt toward the man he'd met only a few days prior was slightly overwhelming. But then, so was the enchantment behind the linked jewelry that they shared.

"It doesn't matter what you think of Jowan. He's as good a cover as any. The Church was fine with keeping his existence outside either Circle a secret. You've forced their hand."

A cover. Well, Fenris thought, that explained exactly what Teagan thought of the Church and mages in general. He wondered again at how much of a smoke screen the bann's familiar and friendly attitude with Anders was. And did Anders realize it? Maybe there was more to Bann Teagan than Fenris had originally thought. He wasn't trained to look for the subtleties in conversation, just body language. As Danarius's bodyguard, it was imperative he knew how to recognize danger before it became a problem. If Teagan had been about to pull a knife on Anders, Fenris could've stopped him before the blade was even drawn. But this dancing around with words was something he wasn't trained for.

Isolde crossed her arms and Fenris saw her frowning profile. "He will go, then. And I will stay. I will send a company of guards with them and this way, both that mage and the Crusader will leave the city. They spit on the Chantry's face being here. I wish that Eamon had never let them in!"

"Calm yourself," Teagan urged, patting the cushion next to him.

Isolde was pouting, but sank down to sit on the couch. "It is not fair, Teagan. They cannot take my child."

"You can see him whenever you wish. The Church won't keep him from you. And when he comes of age, he might even be stationed in Redcliffe."

"How can you stand it?" she asked, looking at him. Her eyes were filled with tears, dark blond hair framing her delicate face.

Teagan withdrew a handkerchief and in a gesture that was very familiar and somehow almost too intimate, he dabbed at the tears that spilled down her cheeks. Fenris watched in anticipation, and his suspicions were confirmed as Bann Teagan gently crooked a finger under her chin, guiding her face toward his. Fenris frowned as they kissed, not a comforting peck to console and calm, but one that admitted a burning passion. Isolde turned toward him, a hand slipping onto his thigh, squeezing, and Teagan wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her tightly. When they broke apart, she sniffed, taking the handkerchief from him and gently wiped her eyes.

"Are you really okay with being away from your son?" she asked quietly.

Fenris bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep from making a sound. It was one thing to find out that Isolde was having an affair with her husband's brother. It was something else to know that Connor wasn't even Eamon's son.

"I don't have a say in the matter," Teagan said, somewhat sadly. He looked tired. "I have to urge you to decide to do what will be the best thing for him. Going to the Church is the best thing. And you should go with him."

"You are telling me to leave you! Do you not want me anymore?" she asked, hand on his chest imploringly.

Fenris had seen and heard enough. If Teagan didn't convince Isolde to surrender Connor to the Church, he could bring this news to Anders. No doubt he would have a way of using it for leverage. Careful as he was sneaking into the library, he snuck out. As he stepped down the hall he felt a surge of panic with a rush of adrenaline that definitely wasn't his own. Anders was little more than a hundred feet away, Fenris could feel him. He broke into a run, letting the cuff guide him almost instinctually, or more crudely, the way a hound tracks his prey. He skidded around a corner scraping his bare feet against the floor as he went and stopped at the mouth of the corridor of the guest wing.

Anders stood outside, hand against the wooden door, the other clutching the earring that completed their link. He looked up, and Fenris felt the relief wash through their link, and wondered what in the Maker's name just happened. Anders started forward so quickly, his expression almost wild, and Fenris took a hesitant step back as the mage reached him, gripping his arms.

"Are you alright?" Anders breathed, looking him over.

"I'm fine," Fenris replied, equally breathless. His heart raced though it wasn't from the short sprint down the hall. Ander released him, and Fenris peered in his eyes. "You look as if you've seen a ghost. What happened? What was that?"

Anders stepped back, taking a breath, running his hand through his hair, loose locks falling around his face. "I woke up and I felt… distress. Something wrong. It wasn't me, so I thought it was you. And when I didn't see you in bed, I thought… Maker, don't do that. Leave a note or something next time."

Fenris scowled. "I was looking for the toilet."

"It's the opposite direction, two doors down," Anders said, flinging his arm in that direction. He looked as if he wanted to shout at him. "Were you distressed that you could find a place to piss?"

"No," Fenris snapped. "Maker's breath, mage, I am allowed to leave your side for more than a few minutes, aren't I?" He was struck then with the realization that he had, in fact, not left Anders' side since they started out. They slept in adjacent beds, went everywhere together except the privy and even then they were only separated a handful of minutes tops. They were even in the same room when they had bathed. Was that normal, he wondered. And wondered further if Anders and Justice had ever been apart once they were assigned.

"Yes," Anders replied in the same tone Fenris had used. "That doesn't answer the question though."

Did seeing Teagan and Isolde together distress him? He didn't think it had. But the implication that Teagan was merely showing a face to Anders, that he could be manipulating him, _that_ most certainly had upset him. He glanced down the hall and back, seeing the guard patrol and shook his head. "Let's get back to the room. After I use the toilet."

Anders stood in the hall, watching him retreat to the door he'd indicated. Fenris found it a bit unnerving but somewhat comforting that someone was so anxious about his whereabouts, but not because he was a piece of property. Though the link manipulated their feelings, the overall desire Anders felt at keeping him safe was genuine. It was… different. And, Fenris found as he returned to the hall to see Anders still standing there, not unwelcome. He followed him into the room and threw the latch. Anders built up the fire a bit more and retreated to his bed, pulling Ser Pounce-a-lot into his lap. Fenris climbed into his own absurdly large bed and pulled the covers around his waist, tucking his feet underneath himself. Though the room was warm, the castle was extremely drafty.

"I got lost," he explained. "And ended up near the library where I heard Teagan speaking to Isolde."

Anders' eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. Ser Pounce-a-lot gave a squeak as he hugged him a little too tightly. "Sorry, Pounce," he muttered, letting him go. "What happened? Did he convince her? He was talking to her about Connor, right?"

Fenris nodded and shifted, the blankets now up and around his shoulders. He couldn't shake the chill despite the fire. "I believe she'll agree to it, to hear their conversation."

"That's good news," Anders said, and Fenris saw his knee jiggling just a little, could sense his interest.

"They're having an affair," Fenris stated simply, unsure how else to put it without being blunt.

"An aff- Are you sure?" Anders asked, his knee stopping as he stared at him, mouth slightly open in surprise.

"Unless sticking one's tongue down the other's throat is a platonic gesture of affection in Ferelden, yes," Fenris said with easy sarcasm. "I'm sure."

Anders reached up, fingers through his hair again, and Fenris wondered if it was a nervous habit when his hair was down. Hadriana would twirl a lock around her finger when she was anxious about something. Magister Faustinus would stroke his goatee. Fenris wasn't aware of any strange tics he had, and supposed Danarius would have beaten it out of him if he found such a movement undesirable.

"I doubt anyone's going to believe us if we tell them," Anders said. "But maybe if Carver and Jowan know. If they can corroborate…" He trailed off, thinking. "They would have written to Irving before then, though. Or told us earlier."

"That's not all," Fenris said, trying to gauge Anders' reaction. He seemed surprised, but not angered. "Apparently Connor is not Eamon's son."

Anders eyes widened with the declaration. "You heard them admit that?"

"Isolde called him Teagan's son," Fenris said with a shrug. "He appeared upset at the prospect of Connor leaving Redcliffe, but seems to understand the necessity."

Anders rubbed his face, fingers dragging up through his hair before he leaned back against the wall, sighing. "Irving needs to know. I'm not sure what can be done, if anything. Or if it's even wise to tell Eamon at this point."

"What would happen?" Fenris asked curiously.

Anders crossed his arms, only to uncross them as Ser Pounce-a-lot crawled up into his lap, settling in the bowl created by his folded legs. He petted him idly, thinking. "Eamon respects Irving. And Greagoir," he added begrudgingly. "I assume he would listen, then confront Teagan and Isolde. It depends on what they say and if they lie and if Eamon believes it."

Fenris frowned, humming a bit as he decided whether or not to mention something. A spell he'd seen in Tevinter that could determine the boy's blood beyond a shadow of a doubt.

"You're giving me a headache," Anders said lightly, reaching up to massage his temples. A faint bluish glow alighted at his fingertips, and Fenris felt the magic buzzing in the air between them.

"Sorry. Just thinking."

"Share with the rest of the class before my head explodes. These bloody trinkets."

Fenris felt slightly offended. After all, it wasn't as if Anders was the only one who had to deal with the situation. His markings itched at the second burst of healing magic. "Desist."

"You'll have to get used to it sooner or later," Anders said flippantly. "Before the week is out you'll be asking me for a spell to keep your warm while we walk all over the Maker's green earth. Now tell me what you're thinking about so we can go to bed."

Fenris huffed and lay down, pulling the blankets up to his chin. He peered at Anders through the orange light of the room and carefully decided on his next words. "In Tevinter, there was a spell… a potion that involved taking a drop of the child's blood and one of the proposed father's. If the mixture turned a certain color, it determined the parentage of the child."

Anders glared. "You're talking about blood magic."

"No," Fenris said, though he knew that Anders would immediately have jumped to the conclusion. "It doesn't involve talking to a demon or taking a deal. It's a potion," he repeated. "A blend of certain herbs and saltwater."

"Oh. Plenty of that around here," Anders said sardonically. "Let me just hop right down to the nearest ocean to retrieve that."

It was Fenris's turn to glare. "It was merely a suggestion. Something to bring to Irving when you tell him what's going on here. I did not expect-" He broke off with a sigh. "Forget it." He rolled over. A moment later he felt the bed dip, the cuff around his wrist pulsing, alerting him to Anders' presence. "Leave me be, mage."

"I'm sorry."

Fenris, frowning, shifted so he could look over and up at Anders, who was sitting on the bed. He thought for a moment to snipe back, but he was too tired, too drained. Redcliffe was nothing like Tevinter in terms of being a political rat's nest, but he'd never had to deal with it directly before. It was much easier to follow orders and directions mindlessly than have to think about them. Or to think about what possible implications there would be for Ferelden overall if or when Eamon found out about his wife's adulterous nature. If Teagan hadn't been so stupid as to publically advertise his affair, if they'd kept it more discreet than the conversation they'd had in the library, Fenris never would have found out, and he wouldn't have to be dealing with it now.

"Forgiven," he said, feeling exhausted, before turning back.

There was a light touch on his arm, then the pressure increased as Anders squeezed gently. Fingertips moved up and he tensed, but they didn't go anywhere near his neck. Instead a warm hand was on his head. A cautious prickle of magic and he felt his markings react accordingly, but the warm tingling sensation was not unpleasant. He felt the earlier anxiety and trepidation fade quickly, leaving behind nothing but a calm fatigue.

"Good night, elf, "Anders whispered.

Fenris felt the mattress shift again as Anders returned to his own bed. He wanted to ask him what spell that was, but he was asleep before he could form the words.

-

Breakfast the next morning was a terse affair. Teagan facilitated the introductions and in Anders' case the reintroductions. Isolde wasn't happy to see Anders and, it seemed, was even less happy to be hosting an elf at her table. Her servants were in attendance, and Fenris noticed they moved with perfect precision. It angered him to see his brethren in subservient roles but he reminded himself that they were at least getting paid for their work. Servants, not slaves. But an elf would never sit a table as a high lord or a bann or an arl. It would be unheard of. And any human that deigned to treat one as an equal would likely be looked at with suspicion from their fellows. Fenris hated it.

Anders either didn't notice or didn't care about the tension and spoke at length in somewhat veiled terms, Fenris thought. The conversation moved easily from the king's potential wedding, to the possible reconstruction in the south, to Eamon's overall health. Neither Teagan nor Isolde made any indication that they'd been discovered, and the meal moved on with little incident.

"So have you made a decision then?" Anders asked, taking a sip of juice, looking at Teagan from over the rim.

Teagan cleared his throat, wiping his mouth on his napkin. "Lady Isolde has decided that it would be best if Connor were to go to the Church to train."

"Alone?" Anders asked, looking to Isolde. "Irving has extended the invitation to you as well, Lady Isolde. There's room enough for both-"

Isolde cut him off with a derisive but delicate snort. Her expression clearly stated her disgust at the idea at staying on a farm that was the equivalent of a barracks now the Church had taken over. "Redcliffe needs me here more than Connor does."

Fenris thought that was a terrible lie. Either that or ten-year-old boys were considered men by Ferelden's standards. He remembered being a scared child of twelve, no knowledge of his past except that he was to listen to his master and behave lest he receive a beating. Sending a child away from his home, alone, even if it was for his own good seemed cruel if there was an alternative option.

"I'll talk to Carver and Jowan," Anders said easily with a shrug. But Fenris could tell that he was just as put off by Isolde's nonchalance as he was. "They'll escort the boy north."

Teagan cleared his throat to interrupt Isolde before she could say anything. "We'll be sending a small company up as well. Just in case. Not that we believe either man incapable of keeping Connor safe –"

Fenris heard that lie as well.

"-but it would make Lady Isolde feel more comfortable."

"Completely understandable," Anders said, draining his glass and standing up. "Well, we have an enormous amount of things to do before we set out again. We'll beg your hospitality for one more evening. I'm sure our counterparts will be eager to leave first thing in the morning."

Fenris stood as well, Teagan following suit. He walked them out of the dining room and shook Anders' hand when they reached the hall. Fenris didn't offer his own, and Teagan deigned to ignore his quiet rudeness.

"I appreciate your patience in this," Teagan said. "It's difficult for her, you understand."

"Quite, quite," Anders said airily. "We'll be waiting at the gate with the others say eight o'clock?"

Teagan nodded. "I'll come see you off. I trust there won't be any issues with sending some of the household guard?"

"Not at all," Anders replied.

Fenris wondered if he was imagining the coolness in Anders' tone as he spoke to Teagan. There definitely did seem to be less warmth, less familiarity in their conversation than the previous night. Though, he reasoned, that could have been because of how the conversation the previous night had ended. Teagan couldn't have known about his impromptu spying session. If he had, they would've been thrown from the castle. He was simply being paranoid.

"Will we be seeing you at supper tonight?" Teagan asked with an air of politeness.

Anders shook his head. "We won't be seeing Jowan or Carver for a while, so I thought we'd have one last evening with them. In fact, Fenris mentioned wanting to train a bit. It's a good idea, all things considered..."

"Mm. Well. Tomorrow then."

Anders nodded and turned, Fenris following him from the hall. He glanced back to see Teagan watch them for a few more seconds before he returned to the dining room.

"Do you believe he suspects anything?" Fenris asked in an undertone.

"No. And it's best that it stays that way until we can get the Church involved. It's our word against theirs right now. If they knew we found out, I don't believe Lady Isolde would let Connor from her sight. Then we'd have no choice but to alert the Chantry. And I doubt they'd care who birthed the child, no one would be able to see Connor. This way, Irving gets tipped off. The child comes into our care, we can test his blood and Eamon's and have evidence. And Irving can decide what to do with the results. You'll probably receive a commendation for this."

Fenris scowled. "I don't need an accolade for potentially ruining a family."

Anders reached over and touched his arm. Fenris felt it, warm and comfortable despite the layers of cloth that separated their skin. He looked up at him, frowning.

"You didn't ruin it," Anders said gently. "Teagan and Isolde made their decisions. You had nothing to do with their infidelity."

"I do not need your comfort," Fenris said, wrenching his arm away. But he felt better for it. He didn't know these people. He certainly didn't know the boy whose life they were going to uproot, and was suddenly glad he wasn't tasked with bringing Connor to the Circle. Yes, mages needed to be monitored, to be watched and made sure they wouldn't use their magic for ill. But it was another thing to be the perpetuator of such incarceration. In a dirty way, it made him feel almost like a magister himself, dictating lives of others, one step away from keeping and carting around slaves.

Anders didn't speak again until they reached the inn to discuss things with Jowan and Carver. He suggested they head to the docks, away from any potential eavesdroppers, and Fenris was deprived of the warm fire in the inn's main room. He shivered in the snow which started to fall again as they reached the shore. The citizens of Redcliffe had all taken refuge inside with only a handful crossing quickly through the square on their way either to or from the chantry. Fenris noticed that Carver's skin shimmered with some type of spell, as did Jowan's, and the cold simply didn't seem to affect them. 

"So what's got you acting all secretive then?" Carver asked, crossing his arms, looking at Anders. "We couldn't have discussed this in the room?"

"No," Anders said. "What we're about to tell you, it goes straight to Irving and Greagoir. First, Lady Isolde agreed to surrender Connor to us. You're leaving in the morning to escort him there along with a company of Redcliffe soldiers."

"What?" Jowan asked. "You're serious? She agreed?"

"We don't have orders to leave Redcliffe," Carver said. "Not officially."

"Can you stop being an idiot for a minute?" Anders said with a sigh. "If not you, then who?"

Fenris felt his frustration and spoke up. "Connor is Teagan's son. Isolde's been having an affair."

The silence that followed was almost comical, and Fenris watched as they turned this over in their minds. They exchanged troubled looks, Jowan shifting uncomfortably as he pulled his cloak more tightly around him, though for comfort rather than warmth it seemed.

"Are you sure?" Carver asked, blue eyes fixed sharply on Anders.

It seemed that despite his idiocy, he grasped the overall implication on what this meant. Eamon off in Denerim, Connor in the Circle, Teagan and Isolde here in Redcliffe together – would they plot to somehow usurp Eamon's position? Teagan seemed a bit of an ass, but not overly ambitious. Fenris knew the type. He'd grown up surrounded by people who would stab their own mothers in their sleep if it meant moving up in the senate. Teagan seemed to actually love Isolde. Maybe he'd never meant to hurt Eamon. Fenris mentally scoffed at the thought. The road to the Black City was paved with good intentions after all.

"Fenris saw it. And there's a potion apparently," Anders began, looking to Fenris for help with the explanation.

Fenris cleared his throat, lips dry and chapped in the biting wind. "A mixture that can determine the boy's parentage."

"I've heard about that!" Jowan said, nodding excitedly. "The First Enchanter should have the means to make it. So we… we test the boy?"

Anders pursed his lips and nodded. "Yes. Once you get back to the Circle you'll want to tell Irving and Greagoir. We'll write up an official report so it's not just word of mouth."

There was a silent agreement between the four of them as the information settled.

"After Fenris and I get that report written, we'd like a bit of practice," Anders said, changing the topic and general mood of the conversation. He gestured up toward the inn.

They started up the snowy hill, Fenris determined to keep his footing in the slush even as Jowan tripped a few times.

"We weren't given any time to fight together," Anders continued. "So I'll speak with Murdock about using the ruins as a sparring ground if you two are up for it. If you think you can beat Fenris, Carver."

Carver glared. "Don't goad. It doesn't suit you."

"He didn't mean anything by it!" Jowan soothed. "You know he likes to tease you."

Anders was grinning, and Fenris felt the slight whirl of the anticipation of a fight in his chest. It was disturbing that he couldn't determine if it belonged to him or Anders. But the feeling fled soon after they entered the inn, when he realized he would be responsible for writing up part of the report. Anders tugged him into a seat while Jowan went to retrieve paper, quill and ink, and Carver sidled up to the bar to flirt with Bella.

"I… there is a problem," Fenris said through gritted teeth. They were sitting at the table closest the fire, furthest from the bar, but he spoke softly nonetheless. Karl hadn't treated him any differently and he didn't expect Anders to either. But would Jowan? Would Carver? Would Carver dare to tease him about it or react how Mason had?

"Oh?" Anders asked, removing his cloak, eyebrow raised. "What is it? You're awfully tense suddenly."

"I… I cannot… read. Or write. Well," he added, "a bit. I just started to learn."

Anders frowned, looking at him, and Fenris felt the one emotion he never wanted to feel: pity. He scowled and started to stand, looking down as Anders seized his hand. 

"Release me."

"No," Anders said gently. "You're not going to run off now. I'm sorry. It's an automatic response. I can't change that, Fenris."

Fenris shrugged irritably, accepting it more quickly than he would have previously. He knew Anders meant him no ill will. "Karl has been teaching me."

Anders nodded. "Good. I'll help. You know, you just had to ask. Though," he added, releasing Fenris's hand when he knew Fenris wouldn't run anymore, "I'm a bit miffed."

"Why?" Fenris sank back into his seat.

"Karl told you about my time in solitary. Presumably he told you about my time in the Circle. And I know only a little about you. He told me exactly nothing."

"There's not much to know," Fenris said as Jowan came back down the stairs.

"On the contrary, I think you're a lot more interesting than you believe," he said with a quick wink. "I'll write the report then. You can dictate. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can put Jowan and Carver in the dirt."

Fenris nodded, grateful. And as they worked on their report and Anders penned a couple of letters to Karl and the others, Fenris wondered if Anders actually believed he was interesting, or if he had just said it to make him feel better.


	12. Chapter 12

Thankfully there were no tearful goodbyes for them the next morning. Fenris watched the half dozen soldiers dressed in Redcliffe's colors waiting just outside the gates of the town. Isolde and Teagan led Connor - a short, blond boy with watery eyes and far too many furs around his shoulders - down from the castle gates. Teagan handed an overlarge pack to one of the soldiers and Carver raised an eyebrow, exchanging a look with Jowan, who shrugged. It was a good thing the boy was leaving, Fenris decided. Seeing Connor with Isolde, with how overbearing and protective she seemed, he slowly changed his mind about it being better for the boy had she decided to go with him. Connor would have room to breathe, others his age to socialize with, and strong guidance from the mages and Crusaders alike. Had he stayed here, it was apparent that his mother's hugs and kisses would suffocate him.

Fenris adjusted his own pack, pulling his cloak around him as they started down the path, Anders shaking Teagan's hand one last time in farewell. The soldiers walked ahead, Connor between them. Fenris thought this was a bit of an insult to Carver and Jowan, who were more than capable of protecting a single boy. They'd sparred with them last night and he hadn't had that much of a challenge in a long time, the Tevinter soldiers choosing to use numbers rather than tactics to hunt and attempt to bring him in. Jowan and Carver worked seamlessly together, their movements fluid. Jowan was not a healer, but had a strong affinity with fire and entropy magic. Both were debilitating and deadly. Fenris was caught in a mind horror spell that left him shaking and weak, his thoughts clouded with memories of Danarius, the magister's punishments. It took Anders the better part of twenty minutes to help him back to the present and heal him so that he was well enough to continue.

He was slowly getting used to the idea of magic as a tool for practicality rather than punishment or power. That Anders was there for him immediately after, healing him, it felt purer somehow than it had been with Danarius. He didn't want to revisit his feelings for his old master, nor compare them to the ones he started developing for Anders. There was a grudging respect he found for the mage, a growing concern. Fenris understood more now why Anders reacted the way he had the night he eavesdropped upon Teagan and Isolde. When Anders nearly fell from a kick to his chest delivered by Carver – a lucky shot, Fenris thought – he felt the welling panic, the clenching of his stomach as if he were going to be sick. As unfamiliar as the emotions were, he found them preferable toward the ones he had for Danarius. Love or lust, gratitude… Maker, he'd actually felt _thankful_ to the man. Now, he recognized it for what it was. Still, it was difficult to shake the feelings, and while he was growing fonder of Anders, it would likely be awhile before he could rid himself of his resentment toward all mages.

"This is where we part," Anders said as the road forked.

Fenris rummaged through his pack a moment and held out several folded and sealed letters. Carefully written were the names of Hawke, Bethany, Dagna and Karl. He'd spent quite a bit of time the previous night with Anders' help to pen a page to each of them. His hand was sore and cramped by the end of it, but he felt accomplished, and proud as Anders assured him they were legible. He held them out to Carver. "Would you mind delivering these?"

Carver grinned and took them, tucking them in his own pack. "Sure. Maker, it'll be nice to go home. You take care of him, yeah? I don't want to hear it from my brother when his best friend comes back in pieces."

Anders rolled his eyes, but Fenris saw a faint pink tinge in his cheeks at being called Hawke's best friend. Fenris felt a slight ripple of jealousy which he ignored. "I shall."

Jowan embraced Anders tightly. "We'll see you for the First Day celebration if not before. Keep safe."

"We will, Jowan," Anders promised, patting him on the back. He gave Carver a look over Jowan's shoulder and gestured at him silently.

"C'mon," Carver said, pulling Jowan away. "Long way to go and the Commander's waiting for us."

Jowan gave Anders one last squeeze and a wave to Fenris and they were off north, the soldiers leading the way. Fenris and Anders watched them until the road turned again and they disappeared behind a hill. Silently they started their own trek south, Fenris shivering slightly.

"If you want, I can-" Anders began, then broke off, seemingly defeated. Instead, he checked the front of his robes. "Doing all right in there, Ser Pounce-a-lot?"

Fenris heard the faint answering mewl. "Very well," he replied quietly.

"Really?" Anders asked, looking back up at him.

Fenris nodded. "I… trust you."

"Well, I would certainly hope so," Anders said, grinning. "It'll help with the chill. I promise." He lifted a hand in view of Fenris, a ball of light forming in his palm. He reached out and gently cupped Fenris's cheek.

Fenris felt it instantly, the warm pull of energy, the tingling through his markings as they flared, glowing brightly. He flexed his fingers, shuddering, and then gradually he felt the cold lessen. The biting wind didn't seem nearly as bad as it had been. He looked down at his hands, the only bit of exposed skin he could see. A faintly bluish white sheen shimmered, and curiosity won over practicality. He untied his sleeves in order to push them up, and the same luster covered his arms, markings dancing with light as it pulsed. He startled as Anders brushed his fingertips along them.

"Does it hurt at all?" he asked, a faint concern in his tone. "The spell should last through the hour but I can perform the counter if it's irritating."

Fenris shook his head, pulling his hood up. He rolled his sleeve back down and allowed Anders to tie the end shut to keep out the rest of the chill. "It's definitely unlike any sensation I've related to magic."

"I'm sorry," Anders said quietly.

Fenris could barely see his frown beyond Anders' own hood. "For what? It's fine. It doesn't hurt."

"Not that. Just that you experienced such a thing. To use magic in such a way, to harm another person deliberately, it goes against everything I've ever been taught. I know I've said it's a tool. That's what the Church teaches while the Chantry tells us it's a stain on our soul. But if the Maker blamed magic for the magisters' actions in the Black City, why would he still gift us with it?"

"The magisters would tell you it's because you are the Maker's chosen. That it's his will that you were born differently, that you have a responsibility to further the greater good." His initial feelings of interest, curiosity, and gratitude were fading slowly.

"The 'greater good'? What the bloody flames does that mean?" Anders asked incredulously.

Fenris shrugged irritably. "Whatever the magisters want it to mean. They'll always find some way to justify their need for power. It's only a matter of time before they start encroaching on the rest of Thedas. Border disputes with Nevarra are already underway. If they cannot hold the north against the Qunari, they will move south against those who are weaker." He couldn't keep the disgust from his tone. How many mages would join the magisters when they saw the power they wielded? Would Anders join them? None of the mages that he met so far seemed to understand the lure of that power.

"The Chantry and the Church would stop them," Anders said, his tone final.

Fenris wondered if he was naïve, or if he simply had blind faith. But Anders had expressed his contempt for the Chantry and his displeasure with certain parts of the Church already. "Possibly. But neither the Chantry nor the Church needs a war right now."

Anders grunted his assent and they fell silent. They continued their journey south through the outskirts of the Hinterlands, the morning sun shining against a clear blue sky. The snow crunched under their feet as the trail became less traveled. The underbrush thickened, giving way to towering pine trees. In the distance they saw rising smoke from far off villages and homesteads. The trees grew closer together providing cover from the earlier snowfall and the path finally became visible underfoot. Fenris felt the steady incline, saw the tree line in the distance, and wondered how far they were going.

"How long before we reach Honnleath?" he asked.

"We might be able to make it in a day if we're lucky. I've never been this far south. The old Church Circle was further west, nearer Ostagar before it all fell to the darkspawn. This area seems somewhat untouched," Anders added, glancing around.

Fenris noticed as well that what little vegetation that grew in the frozen winter was still green. There were no signs of decay here, no touch of the darkspawn taint. Not that Fenris thought he'd be able to recognize such a thing beyond the blight wolves they encountered days before, but he was familiar with destruction and foul magic. Tevinter was rife with it, the buildings in the cities held together with magic, the landscape torn asunder for materials. Years of colonization and industrialization left it stripped and barren in most parts. And the rare areas that remained largely untouched by the magisters, Fenris never had the pleasure of visiting. Danarius was happier in the city where he could control his household and his assets, attend senate meetings and show off his power. Even when they traveled to Antiva they mainly stayed in the city. The waters of Rialto Bay were polluted from the foundries of Antiva City and others, lacking the clear blue color he'd seen in the rivers and brooks here in Ferelden.

"This country is beautiful," he said impulsively.

Anders laughed. "I thought the same when I came here. They brought me in late spring, the flowers were blooming and everything was so green. I remember diving into Lake Calenhad when they let us out one summer. The locals around the lake will tell you it's polluted from the potions, but it's not. Mossy, though. And a lot of bugs."

"What about where you came from?" Fenris asked. "The Anderfels? I've never been. There was never a reason for… for him to bring us there." He faltered a bit, the old habit of calling Danarius 'my master' threatening to surface.

"I expect there wouldn't be," Anders said. "The Anderfels is strictly religious. Chantry rules are enforced. Dissention is quickly stamped out. We practiced all the holidays, regular worship was expected."

"You… were an Andrastian?" Fenris glanced sidelong at him.

Anders let out a laugh. "Difficult to believe, I know. But I was. Said my prayers and everything."

"And you… believed that mages deserved to be locked away for their own good?" Fenris refused to believe that. Though he'd known him barely a week, Anders was stubborn in his belief.

"I was twelve when I was taken away," Anders said, the laughter dying from his tone. "I don't remember what I believed, but I expect I did. Or I believed whatever my father had us believing. He was a hard man, but you had to be in a place like that. All rocks and deserts and blisteringly hot summers. I looked up to him. At least… until my magic manifested." He looked down at his hands, frowning with the memory.

Fenris felt it through their link: regret, sadness, anger. "What happened? If… it would help to talk about it."

Anders sighed, dropping his arms. The path thinned, forcing them shoulder to shoulder as rocks lined the trail. Fenris kept his eyes trained on the ground in order to keep from tripping over the rough terrain. Stones fashioned into steps likely from the barbarian tribes from ages ago made the climb a bit easier, though the ground was still slick and icy from the frost.

"My family helped raise sheep. My father would let me shear them sometimes. There was something… a wolf or a mountain cat. I don't remember. It was causing problems. I thought I would be the hero. Stupid thing to do, really. A boy taking on a predator like that. I was lucky I wasn't the one who ended up slaughtered like our sheep. I bet my father would've preferred it," he added sharply. "I saw it. A shadow at the edge of our barn. I was going to chase it off with a stick and ended up hurling a fireball at it."

Fenris let out a noise of surprise. "Just like that?"

Anders shrugged. "I'm told that's how it happens with most mages. Extreme emotion. Anger or elation. Jowan's came when he was six. A girl in his village was getting bullied and she was trying to run away. He paralyzed the boy with a spell. Nearly killed him."

"That's… that's horrible."

"No," Anders said acidly, "what's horrible is that his mother screamed at him. Called him an abomination and his father left him at their village's chantry without so much as a hug goodbye."

Fenris watched him wrap his arms around himself, saw the ginger head of the tabby poke from his robes. A pink tongue flicked out, licking Anders' chin, and Fenris wondered if Ser Pounce-a-lot was as in tune with Anders' moods as he was starting to become.

"Is that what happened to you?" Fenris asked with morbid curiosity. As someone with no past to remember, he found himself fascinated with Anders' memories, cruel as they seemed.

"No. My father dragged me into our cellar. Locked the door and called for the templars. I can hear my mother crying sometimes." Another laugh, though this time it was bitter. "She hugged me before they tore me from her arms. Clapped manacles around my wrists. Dragged me from my home with everyone in the village watching like I was a criminal. They threw me in a cart and after a night in the Hossberg Circle they took me to Ferelden."

Fenris felt his chest tighten with the sadness that surged through him. He stopped suddenly and pulled Anders impulsively into an embrace. The mage stiffened in his arms, then relaxed, resting a cheek on his shoulder. Fenris wasn't sure what made him do it, but the desire to comfort his companion had all but become overwhelming. The cold metal of the cuff on his wrist warmed with the contact, and he inhaled slowly, eyes closing.

"You are not there anymore," he said softly. "It… is something that I need to remind myself at times. In dreams when my mind forces me back to Tevinter."

Anders sighed. "You would think that I-"

A chilling howl echoed cutting him off mid-sentence and they broke apart, Fenris reaching for his sword while Anders drew his staff. Two enormous wolves, their fur mottled with black ichor, eyes as red as flame charged from the cliffs above. They leapt, Fenris holding his blade in both hands, ready for the impact. There was a dull whistling sound and a whimpering, two arrows from seemingly out of nowhere catching the wolves with deadly accuracy. They dropped to the path behind Fenris and Anders, twitching as they died, thick black blood oozing from the wounds in their neck. Fenris whirled at once toward the directions from which the arrows came.

"My shot was a bit more on point than yours, yes?"

A shadow moved from a tree branch and a second later, a blond elf dropped down gracefully, landing in a crouch. His light leather armor was Antivan in make and would have been traditional if not for the dark brown long-sleeved tunic and trousers we wore under them. His boots were brown leather lined with fur and his hair was tied back in an intricate braid. His face was tattooed much like a Dalish elf's, and while he clearly had skill, the cocky smile and accent indicated he likely wasn't Dalish himself. He held a longbow in one hand, an arrow in another, and was looking off to his left. Fenris didn't dare to follow his gaze, nor did he lower his sword. Just because this elf had been responsible for slaying the wolves that ambushed them didn't mean he was friendly.

"Wait," Anders said quietly, hand reaching out to touch Fenris's wrist.

"It's not a competition, Zevran," said someone. A tall, broad man emerged from around one of the large rocks. In contrast to Zevran's light leather armor, this man wore full plate. It was battered and scratched and looked well-worn and was made of a material Fenris couldn't quite place. The man wore no helmet, his long black hair tied back in a tail. His square chin boasted a few days' worth of scruff and while he looked tired, his eyes were sharp and alert.

"Oh, I must have been mistaken when you swore to me the last battle that you felled four bandits to my three. My most sincere apologies." Zevran bowed low, mockingly.

"That's neither here nor-" The man cut off abruptly, gaze turning to Anders. His eyes widened in recognition. "Anders."

Anders nodded to him. "Warden-Commander."

Fenris relaxed finally, replacing his sword on his back, glancing back briefly at the two wolves whose blood was starting to rot the ground beneath them. The Warden-Commander approached, holding out a hand to Anders, who shook, smiling slightly.

"I didn't recognize you at first," the Warden-Commander said, reaching up to flick Anders' hood back a bit. "We didn't expect anyone so soon. And definitely not you."

Fenris bristled at the statement. It sounded as if this man was implying that Anders wasn't good enough for whatever assignment they'd been requested for. But Anders didn't seem to take offense, laughing even as the Warden-Commander's face remained mirthless.

"Yes. Finally letting me out of my cage. Irving thought it would be good for me."

"I'd expect you to be climbing the walls by now. Oh," the Warden said, gesturing behind him.

The elf – Zevran - was leaning casually against the rock wall, a boot knife in hand as he casually picked at his fingernails. "Hmph."

"Do stop pouting, Zevran. Anders, do you remember Zevran? Zevran, Anders."

Zevran's countenance changed at once, the knife disappearing into the folds of his armor as he approached. Fenris watched him shake hands with Anders, scowling slightly as soft brown eyes flicked up and down, assessing. There was a faint wink and a smile, and Anders returned the latter.

"How could I forget the pain of rejection?" Zevran said, his Antivan accent thick and irritating to Fenris's ears.

Anders laughed easily. "You just caught me at a bad time," he said easily. "This is Fenris, my Crusader," he introduced. "Fenris, Warden Cousland and his… ah. Companion. Zevran."

Fenris begrudgingly shook their hands.

"Aedan's fine," Cousland said.

"We do apologize if we were interrupting a moment," Zevran fairly purred, leering at Fenris. "Well, more accurately put, the wolves should be apologizing but I think they are quite busy being dead."

Fenris gritted his teeth, trying to quell the irritation he felt. Had these two been _watching_ them? Not that it mattered as there had been no 'moment' to interrupt as Zevran not so subtly put it. However, whatever bond he'd been slowly forming with Anders seemed a private thing, and they had no right to eavesdrop upon it.

"Speaking of," Cousland said. "Should be easier now we have a mage with us. Would you mind burning the bodies? It slows the taint."

Anders took his staff in hand once more and Fenris stepped away, feeling the pull of magic in the air almost before Anders started to cast. He pulled his staff close to his body then flung it outward, the fireball rushing from his hand down the shaft and bursting from the tip in a stream of molten heat. The air, already chilly, cooled further as the oxygen was sucked from it and the smell of burning flesh filled the area. In seconds all that was left behind were the bones and the stain from the tainted blood.

"Good enough to be going on with," Cousland said, surveying it. "There's a storm coming tonight. We were hoping to make Honnleath before then but I'm not sure we'll have time."

Fenris glanced up again at the cloudless sky and wondered how accurate Cousland's weather prediction could be. Perhaps that's what made the man special. Fighting darkspawn and climate forecast.

"Our things are a bit further up." Cousland gestured. "If we can make the town by nightfall we can requisition a house if there's anything left."

"The benefits of being a Grey Warden so soon after a Blight," Zevran said, leading the way. "Ordering people to give you quarter when necessary." His accent was thick with amusement, but Cousland didn't return the smile.

"I admit when I entreated the Church for aid, I didn't expect to see you. Maybe Hawke, given our history," Cousland continued.

Fenris fell back slightly, irked when Zevran did the same. The sounds of their conversation were lost in the wind and the sounds of the forest, Fenris catching snatches of it. Anders was explaining how they came together, what they'd been up to. He bristled when the other elf knocked into him somewhat playfully, and leveled his gaze on him. Anyone else would have taken the hint from the glare and hurried along, or at least stopped all attempts to talk to him. Zevran either missed those cues or didn't care.

"So, what did you do to get yourself paired with our formidable mage? Bribe someone? Threaten? Was it true love at first sight?"

"There is no love, true or not," Fenris snapped, walking a bit faster.

But Zevran kept pace. "No?"

The amusement in his voice made Fenris growl slightly. "We are assigned partners. Leave it."

"So you wouldn't mind perhaps if I were to extend an invitation to our fair-haired friend to join him in my tent tonight?"

Fenris looked up quickly, eyes narrowed, trying to discern if this was a joke. "I don't see why it would be any of my business. Perhaps I'm not the one you should be asking," he said, looking pointedly at Cousland. To hear it from anyone who knew the man, the Warden-Commander and Zevran were an item. Yet, here was his lover brazenly implying – no, not implying, outright _stating_ that he was going to proposition Anders.

"Would it surprise you to know that it was his idea in the first place?"

Fenris nearly stumbled, and yanked his arm away from Zevran's grasp when he attempted to catch him. His boot slipped on the loose rocks and he went down painfully on one knee. "Do not touch me!"

Zevran backed away immediately, hands up in surrender, the amused quirk to his lips never fading. Ahead, Anders must have felt the distress through their link, or heard Fenris's shout. He was by his side in an instant, pulling him to his feet. Fenris felt the faint crackle of magical energy, saw the irritation as he looked at Zevran.

"Just a misunderstanding," Zevran said lightly.

Cousland raised an eyebrow, looking from Fenris to Zevran, then rolled his eyes at the latter. "Just one day. One day is all I'm asking."

"Well, you can hardly blame me, my dear Grey Warden," Zevran said, skipping ahead lightly to match pace with Cousland as they started off again. "He has the most entrancing green eyes."

"All right?" Anders asked, letting Fenris go.

"Mm." Fenris brushed himself off. His knee twinged but it would pass.

"What happened?"

They started to walk, Zevran and Cousland staying some feet ahead. Anders kept his voice down, and Fenris felt the cuff on his wrist pulsate with the concern. He felt foolish now, both for losing his footing and overreacting. However perhaps it was best this way. Zevran would be put off by his behavior and have no more desire to speak with him. Or at least touch him.

"He expressed interest in bedding you, then attempted to touch me when I slipped. It was a simple…" Misunderstanding? That wasn't quite the right word. "Irritation."

Anders laughed, and Fenris saw the faint blush in his cheeks. "It wouldn't be the first time. I should have warned you. He can come on a bit strong. I… haven't worked much with him, but the first night we met he asked me to his bed. With Aedan. I was a bit taken aback."

"Mm." Fenris wasn't sure if he wanted to pursue this line of conversation. Whoever Anders slept with was none of his business after all. And should he, Fenris, ever choose a partner, it was none of Anders' business. He thought briefly of Bethany, her smile, her gentle touch. It was his turn to blush, pulling his hood low over his eyes as he kept them trained on the ground. The patches of ice grew thicker and larger the further south they walked.

"That was before Justice… well. He kept me mostly on task and there wasn't time anyway. We were preparing for an attack. It was the night before we left for Denerim."

Fenris remained quiet, not sure what to say. He wanted to ask Anders if he was going to take them up on their offer now. Zevran certainly seemed inclined. But why did he care? It wasn't as if he was attracted to Anders. But the need to protect him was fierce.

_You're being ridiculous. He's a grown man. He can go with them if he wishes._

He jumped as a hand brushed his own; he hadn't realized how closely together they'd been walking. He felt it again, and allowed Anders to entwine their fingers briefly, the backs of their hands pressed together.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

Fenris gently squeezed Anders' fingers with his own before withdrawing and tucking his hands into the folds of his cloak. "It's an unwarranted sense of foreboding. I'm sure it'll pass. Unfamiliar territory. Unfamiliar companions."

"Aedan says we won't be here long. Maybe a night before we set out again to a town called Haven. I've never heard of it. He said it's haunted." He shuddered. "I hope it's an exaggeration."

"There's no such thing as ghosts."

"You believe that?" Anders asked. "So cynical. They could exist. After all, we know spirits and demons do. And the soul."

"But no one knows what happens after we die. And if ghosts existed, we would have seen them by now, surrounded by death as we are."

"…Fenris, you are incredibly morbid."

Fenris glanced over at Anders and couldn't help a slight laugh which they shared. They fell into a comfortable silence, watching their companions ahead. Fenris noticed the way Zevran almost bounced in his step while Cousland had the makings of a man who was definitely military trained. They were too far ahead for him to hear their conversation, but he noticed Zevran glancing back over his shoulder every now and again, his eyes falling on Anders before returning to whatever conversation he was having with Cousland.

The day wore on and they stopped briefly to eat before pushing themselves for several more hours. Talk was scarce as the air grew colder and overcast and Cousland's prediction of a storm didn't seem so preposterous now. When the first flakes began to fall, he pushed them faster down the path.

"My dear, perhaps it is time we set camp, no?" Zevran asked, his breath escaping in white clouds. Fenris heard the worry in his voice.

"No. It's just another mile down," Cousland said determinedly. "We're not stopping here. Just a little further and there'll be four walls and roof with a fire."

Zevran muttered something under his breath that Fenris couldn't hear over the wind. He glanced at Anders, who was looking down into his robes.

"Is er… your cat alright?" he asked carefully, trying assess the emotions he felt over their bond. Urgency, anxiety, but not panic.

"Pounce is fine," Anders replied, looking at him with a half-smile. "He hates the cold."

"That makes two of us," Fenris grumbled.

Anders lifted a hand, a blue glowing ball at his fingertips. He let loose and Fenris felt the warmth in his skin renew, markings flaring in the twilight. Cousland glanced back, eyebrow raised.

"Want me to do you as well?" Anders asked, lifting his hand, the same ball of blue-white light filling his palm.

Zevran nearly purred at the innuendo. "Only if I get to watch the festivities."

Fenris scowled, but Anders laughed and applied the same spell to the other two. He might have missed the suggestive look between Zevran and Cousland, but Fenris didn't. They were supposed to be on a serious mission! He doubted that Anders' old Crusader would have approved of such obvious and overt flirtations, but wisely did not point this out. Anders was relaxed, in a good mood despite the arduous walk and bad weather and boring mission, and Fenris didn't want to ruin that. Despite their rocky start, he found the mage companionable. And that was something he had difficult wrapping his head around.

They reached the gates of Honnleath in the next half hour, following Cousland to a surprisingly full inn with a roaring fire. The innkeeper glanced up, and there was a rough few seconds of silence before the room broke into applause.

"What in the Maker's name…" Anders started.

Two men pulled Cousland and Zevran in at once, pushing them into chairs and mugs of ale were shoved into their hands. Fenris noticed that Cousland's expression remained somewhat blank, while Zevran seemed to soak up the adulations. Over the shouts of the tavern goers they heard Cousland call out to them, telling a few of the men to clear a space, which they did. Fenris ducked his head as they sat down across from their companions.

"And then he swung his sword and clean took off that hurlock's head, dinnit 'e?"

Anders jumped as the man who was telling some animated tale (no doubt of Cousland) gestured with his mug, spilling a bit of his mead. Fenris scowled and slid further down the bench, pulling Anders with him, away from the storytellers, which amassed at the head of the table. Zevran rested his elbow on the table, chin in hand as he nudged Cousland.

"I remember vividly," he began, "the possessed cat that you tricked with your wily wits."

"Possessed cat?" Anders asked, frowning.

Fenris sighed. Apparently he was in for a long night of being regaled with stories of 'the good old days.' He discreetly squeezed Anders' hand under the table before excusing himself to the bar. If he was going to be made to sit through this, he would do it with a good wine in his belly.

If this town even had any good wine.


	13. Chapter 13

As it turned out, Honnleath did have quite a supply of wine. And fish. Fenris partook of the former, ignored the latter, and soaked up the alcohol with some black bread and hard cheese. Anders remained as sober as he could with his tankard being refilled and topped off every few minutes. They'd gone to bed late in the evening, and Fenris thought he perhaps wouldn't mind staying here a few days, provided they actually did something of merit instead of talk about Cousland's past achievements. Not that the Hero of Ferelden wasn't impressive, but Fenris had his fill of that type of conversation in Tevinter. About the time Zevran started joking that they should put up a statue of him in the center of the village, Fenris decided it was time to go to sleep. Anders came with, passing out in the bed adjacent, and Fenris fell asleep easily with him there.

Unfortunately he didn't sleep long, head swimming as he woke slowly. Something felt… not wrong, exactly, but out of place. He pulled the blankets back, feeling no pain, but a faint stirring of arousal in his groin. He looked down. No wounds on his person. A dream, perhaps? A good dream for once? But he couldn't remember it. Sitting up, he reached for his tunic and tugged it on over his head. The inn was built against a cliff side with other dwellings hugging it, and their room was windowless with a small fireplace. It was cozy and warm and lacked the drafts of the castle at Redcliffe. It should have been the best sleep he had since leaving the makeshift barracks of the Church. But something was amiss.

Then he realized. Anders' bed was empty save for Ser Pounce-a-lot who was curled up on Anders' pillow. The covers were pulled up, the bed looking as if Anders had made it hastily. Fenris frowned. If he'd gotten up to relieve himself, he wouldn't have bothered. Would he have? He crossed the short distance and saw a piece of paper sticking out from under the ginger fur, and wrested it from its hiding spot. Ser Pounce-a-lot mewled indignantly, stood, circled twice and laid back down. Fenris moved to the fire to read the words which were thankfully written in extremely large, legible handwriting.

_Fenris,_

_I am fine. Talking to Cousland and Zevran. Do not worry about me. Sleep well._

_Anders_

Fenris scratched at the back of his neck, frowning as he sounded out the words before he tossed the note in the fire. So Anders decided to continue the impromptu celebration. He would regret it in the morning. They had work to do after all, though he was still unclear as to what that work was. Cousland seemed to think they deserved a bit of a break, or perhaps he just enjoyed the free alcohol. Either way, Fenris was fairly sure he didn't want to deal with a hungover mage in the morning. With a sigh he stepped out into the darkened hallway and crossed to the room that he knew Cousland was sharing with Zevran. He raised a fist to knock and stopped, hearing a low moan. He was about to turn around and retreat back to his room when he felt a euphoric ripple through his bond he shared with Anders.

Like sinking into a warm bath, it started at his wrist, the cuff pulsing a bit. His markings lit dimly, a blue phosphorescent glow in the dark. He glanced up quickly, but saw no one else in the hall. The raucous sounds of celebration that wafted upstairs earlier were gone, the only sounds now the wooden floor creaking as the inn settled, and another soft moan that was cut off by a sharp gasp. Curiosity won out and he sank down, peering through the somewhat formidable crack in the door…

…And bit his tongue to keep the surprised cry from escaping his lips. He'd expected to see Cousland and Zevran, some perverse part of his own nature wanting to catch just a glimpse of them together, to see it. They seemed so different to him that it was difficult to imagine they were lovers. Not that it was his business. What he didn't expect was to see Anders there as well. He was as naked as his bed partners, sitting Cousland's lap, head tilted to the side as Cousland bit and licked his neck. Zevran was on his knees on the floor, Anders' cock between his lips, one hand on his thigh, the other fisting his own erection. Anders was thrusting against Cousland's powerful arms, which held him firmly in place.

"Oh… oh, Maker," Anders breathed. "Ngh. Zevran…"

Zevran laughed, pulling back, licking his lips. "Regretting not taking us up on the offer sooner? It is only a shame your Crusader deigned not to join us. Such… lovely skin."

Fenris frowned. He should not be watching this. He should return to his room. These men would not hurt Anders. At least, he thought they wouldn't. Cousland eased him up, positioning him on the bed on his hands and knees while Zevran took up a jar of something. He settled it next to Cousland before moving into bed. Another flare of pleasure rippled across their bond as Zevran took Anders' face in his hands, kissing him soundly. Fenris looked at Cousland, who was watching with half-lidded eyes before he opened the jar of lubricant.

He watched Cousland dip his fingers into the glop, and his hand disappeared behind Anders. As he (presumably, as Fenris could not see from this angle) prepared Anders, there was another wave of pleasure, and Fenris felt his own cock harden in his leggings. He ignored it, trying to will himself to go. But he couldn't, and a part of himself didn't want to. He'd been forced into situations where he needed to pleasure Danarius, or instances where Hadriana… no. He would not think of it. It was only with the Fog Warriors that he found any kind of consensual pleasure and release. And while he knew he should afford Anders his privacy, it was a marvel to watch it happen. The expression on his face was not fear or disgust. He was happy, relaxed.

Fenris closed his eyes briefly, remembering a woman's face, her voice, as they coupled in the soft meadow at dusk. He'd been with the Fog Warriors for several weeks and worked up the courage to ask her. She responded with a kiss and they spent the night under the stars. He hesitated to call it, 'making love'. They hadn't been in love, merely friends. Friends? He supposed that was the right word for it. But then his memories flashed to her face again as she lay dying with the others. He opened his eyes forcefully, trying to forget. It was easy, as now he had Anders to watch. His own eyes widened as Cousland pushed in, and Zevran guided his head down. Pink lips parted to take in the elf's cock and Maker, his complexion was tan all over, as if he'd spent weeks in the Antivan sun rather than in the harsh Ferelden countryside.

It was awkward, but somehow beautiful. Fenris would have said that Anders was not being treated fairly, Cousland taking him roughly, fingers digging into pale hips while Anders pleasured Zevran. A tanned hand was on Anders' back, the other in his hair, stroking gently. Cousland said something that Fenris missed, and he leaned over to kiss Zevran over Anders. Fenris saw now what he thought he'd been missing as he watched them earlier. The kiss was tender and loving but not without passion. They might seem opposites, Zevran wild and cocky and full of life and Cousland quiet and dark and stern. But they completed each other somehow, two sides of the same coin.

Fenris pulled away finally and stopped by the toilet before returning to bed, still feeling the waves of pleasure roll through his link with Anders. He couldn't see the earring that completed their connection, but there was no doubt it was still there. And when he closed his eyes, lying in his own bed once more, he remembered that Anders also had the silver cuff on his arm, as well as the amulet around his neck. Fenris wondered, perhaps bitterly, if Anders was ever going to let Justice go. And in the next second, he wondered why he cared. Anders' hang-ups were his own. And so far they didn't seem to affect his work. If anything, Fenris should be focused on ridding himself of his own past. At least the memories Anders seemed to cling to were positive.

As he fell asleep, he let the warm, blissful feelings lull him into decent dreams, the face of the Fog Warrior woman fading, replaced by a sunny smile, dark hair and brown eyes. Sleep took him slowly and whispered softly in the darkness.

"Bethany."

-

The next morning, Fenris was unsurprised to see Anders' bed still empty. He opened the door for Ser Pounce-a-lot who darted out at once, and followed him into the hall. Across from him the door opened and a tousle-haired and bare chested Anders emerged quietly. The door clicked shut and he turned, looking up, catching Fenris's eye. The resulting surprise was almost comical, and Anders looked quickly back at the door, then to Fenris, like he was a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar before supper.

"Fenris. I-"

"Do you want breakfast?" Fenris asked, covering a yawn with the back of his hand. "I assume it'll be on Cousland's tab, yes?"

"I… suppose. Yes. Bacon. And some of that hard cheese from last night? Coffee, if it's available."

Fenris nodded and turned, going two steps before Anders called his name. He turned back. "Hm?"

"I'm… Uh. Sorry?"

Fenris raised an eyebrow. "For?"

"I suppose… leaving you?"

Fenris frowned. Anders was shifting almost guiltily, holding his tunic in a crumpled ball against his stomach. "You left a note. And besides which," he added, waving a hand, "I would not have wanted to join in. I'm glad you had a good evening." Before Anders could say anything else, Fenris descended to the main floor to obtain breakfast.

They ate in their room in silence, Anders with his hair tied back and wrinkled shirt on. He kept glancing at Fenris, almost as if he expected to be chastised. Finally, Fenris took pity, wiping away crumbs on his thighs and looked up. Anders swallowed a sip of coffee and waited.

"You seem to think that not everything is all right between us," Fenris said gently. "It is."

"I just… thought…"

Fenris held up a hand. "I'm not your former Crusader. If you want to have sex-"

"It's not about Justice!" Anders insisted, a bit too vehemently. "It… all right, maybe it is a little bit," he conceded. "He was just… he was very…" He huffed. "I… I don't want to talk badly about him."

"Nothing will change the fact that he's a hero," Fenris said carefully. Everyone who knew him spoke of Justice with the reverence they usually reserved for the Maker. To hear the other Crusaders talk, Justice was a living, breathing incarnation of all that was good and holy. And he might have been, considering what he was, a Fade spirit entwined with a living being. An abomination that performed impressively heroic deeds. "If you wish to talk about him…" Part of him, a very tiny part that he yet wasn't ready to acknowledge, was jealous of Justice. It was irrational, and therefore he did his damnedest to shove it away.

"He never let me have any fun."

The statement was so absurdly juvenile that Fenris had to laugh. "I… I'm sorry," he said, trying to stave off the chuckle that threatened to bubble up again. Anders was looking at him incredulously. "You sounded like a petulant child whose father took away his toys."

Anders huffed, blowing air through his bangs before he curled in bed, taking another sip of his coffee. "Justice was… he was like a father to me in a lot of ways. I didn't mind. He was controlling, but good. It's… I'm not describing it properly. Do you understand?"

Fenris thought of Danarius. As horrible as his master was, he was security. With Danarius, he knew he had a place. A room with a roof, food, clothing. He was told where to go and what to be. Fenris would never trade his freedom, terrifying as it was, in again for something like that. But he understood. "I do."

"When he died, everything seemed to go to shit."

When Anders didn't continue, Fenris unfolded his legs and crossed the short distance. Without a word, he slid into bed next to him, sitting up against the headboard, their shoulders and thighs pressed together, offering silent comfort. Anders smiled, tight-lipped.

"Everyone was celebrating the death of the archdemon. The deserved it," Anders continued quietly.

Fenris watched him turn the mug idly in his hands, forearms resting on his knees as he recalled the story.

"But I couldn't. I was… the month following his death was the loneliest I'd ever felt since joining the Church." He paused, tilting the cup as he thought. "I miss him."

"Is this why you want to believe in ghosts?" Fenris asked.

Anders looked at him, the same expression he used whenever he thought Fenris said something particularly insulting. But there was something else behind it, a sort of fond exasperation. He knocked his knee against Fenris's, shaking his head. "No. I know he's gone. I looked. I searched the Fade. Both waking and in dreams. He's gone."

"He wouldn't begrudge you a bit of pleasure. If you feel guilty…" Fenris trailed off with a shrug. "Don't. It certainly doesn't bother me. As long as…" He frowned, not sure how to phrase the sentiment he wanted. "If they hurt you, I will reciprocate tenfold." Not exactly what he was going for, but it was close enough.

Anders laughed. "They won't. Well, not how you're thinking of it. It's just a… a dalliance. It wouldn't mean more than that. They're too… good for one another."

"Mm." Fenris paused. "The less I know about their personal relationship, the better. We're here to do a job."

Anders rolled his eyes and nudged him out of bed. "Never mind. You _are_ just like Justice. At least in some parts."

Fenris supposed he should take that as a compliment. He was about to reply when someone knocked on their door, and before he could cross to open it, Zevran poked his head in, grinning. Fenris scowled.

"Good, you are both awake. Aedan would like to see you. It concerns the mission. That is, as long as I wasn't interrupting anything." His eyes flicked from Fenris to Anders, who was still in bed.

"We'll be down presently," Fenris said, closing the door, forcing Zevran to duck out quickly lest he be struck with it.

Anders sighed, shaking his head. "You could try to be a little nicer to him."

"Why? He is irritating."

"He's not. He's just different," Anders insisted. "He's…"

"It's not difficult to see what Cousland sees in him," Fenris said, starting to dress for the day. "But I've a feeling my patience is going to be pushed to the utmost limit. I don't enjoy encroachment upon my personal space."

Anders slid from bed and started dressing as well. "You don't mind it from me."

"That's different. We're…" He looked down at the cuff on his wrist, tracing his fingertip over the Church's symbol. "Partners. We're meant to work together. And," he added quickly, looking at him, "I don't find you nearly as irritating as I find him."

Anders laughed. "Oh, well. Thank you very much."

Despite himself, Fenris smiled. Perhaps Karl knew what he was doing after all when he'd matched them together.

-

The business that Cousland had, it seemed, was asking for Grey Warden recruits. The town of course, wanted help in return. Fenris was starting to think that Honnleath was a clever cover for their real mission, and wondered what would need to be stated in his report to Greagoir. What were they going to find in Haven that Cousland required a mage for? How much danger were they putting themselves in? He wasn't one to back down from a challenge, but he liked to assess the situation before running in with his head down. Not knowing what was coming was a good way to get yourself killed.

After an hour of making promises and signing an agreement, Cousland found a dozen men and women in all who were willing to give their lives for the Grey Warden cause. He accepted four. Fenris found this curious, but even more so that two were second sons and a third an older man who'd lost his family in the Blight. The fourth was a woman who'd had no children, only an elderly mother who encouraged her to go. It was as if joining the Wardens was a death sentence and, Fenris reasoned, it most likely was. Fighting darkspawn didn't exactly entail a safe, comfortable life at home. Now that the Blight was over, the order needed to be rebuilt, but they likely weren't as desperate as they'd once been.

It was nearly noon before they left Honnleath, their packs restocked with food, their clothing fresh. Fenris lagged behind slightly, watching Zevran talk with Anders, Cousland ahead and leading the way. He examined the way Zevran touched Anders' arm, how he leaned into him. The elf was a Crow, and in his past, Fenris had met several of them. In fact, Danarius often paid the guild for jobs he needed done discreetly, ones that Fenris couldn't be responsible for. He was a bodyguard, after all, not an assassin. But Zevran was schooled in the art of seduction, and on Anders it had worked. Fenris never had to bother with such things. Danarius took him when he wished. Hadriana used him in her own way. With the Fog Warriors, it had been straightforward requests, which Fenris preferred. But still he watched.

There was a slight bit of jealousy that he knew was irrational. Anders' time and attention were his own to do with what he wanted. He didn't owe it to Fenris to talk to him every waking minute. And Fenris wondered if other mage-Crusader teams felt similarly toward one another. Hawke and Bethany certainly didn't spend every second of every day together. He was sure Hawke had a legion of friends and lovers, with how open and amiable he was. And Bethany… she was beautiful and sweet and likely had a line of suitors. He clenched his gauntleted fist, as a fresh wave of envy overcame him, and Anders glanced back.

"It's nothing," Fenris assured him before he could even speak.

"Are you sure?"

"Hmm. Mind-reading?" Zevran asked. "Is that what your lovely tattoos enable you to do? Do me next," he purred.

Fenris scowled. "You are an open book, Crow."

"Hopefully a page-turner with heaving milky white bosoms, yes?"

"Zevran!"

"Coming, amore mio," Zevran said, tossing a wink at Fenris before hurrying to catch up with Cousland.

Fenris caught Cousland's eye and nodded his thanks.

"You're going to need to get used to him at some point," Anders pressed. "He's harmless. Are you all right?" he asked again. "I felt…" He reached up, rubbing his earlobe, shrugging. "I'm not sure. Jealousy?"

Fenris scowled. "I was thinking of something else. It's nothing to do with you or your…" He waved a hand in the direction of their companions.

"If you're sure. Because if it bothers you-"

"I've already said it doesn't, mage." Anders fell silent at his clipped tone. Fenris swore under his breath. "I did not mean… Anders," he tried. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Anders said quietly, in a tone that indicated it was anything but. "Just when I thought maybe you were capable of being reasonable."

"Me?" Fenris growled. "You constantly feel the need to repeat yourself when I assure you there's nothing-"

Something hit him from behind, knocking him to the ground. His landed hard on his hands and knees, a sharp, burning pain in his left shoulder. It took him a moment to register the arrowhead sticking out the front. Without thinking, he reached up to grab it.

"Fenris!"

The soldiers were on them in seconds, at least a dozen on the cliffs above, several in front of them. Cousland had already drawn his sword and shield, Zevran his twin daggers. Anders knelt, staff in one hand, the other on Fenris's shoulder.

"Give us the slave and you can all walk free."

"I don't see any slaves here," Cousland responded, turning his blade easily in his hand.

Fenris, panting from the pain, looked up, his white hair falling in his eyes. Tevinter solders, their eerily blank-faced helmets peering back at him. He felt the anger, the panic that came so often with being hunted. "Fasta vass!" he hissed, reaching up again for the arrow.

One of the men moved forward, hands raised in a gesture of peace. He approached Cousland, pulling up the faceless visor. Fenris didn't recognize him, but didn't expect to.

"We'll pay you handsomely for the elf," the soldier said, pulling a coin purse from his belt. "Let us have him and we'll go."

"You will pay handsomely for a handsome elf," Zevran said, twirling one of his daggers. "But I'm afraid both such elves are spoken for. Are they not, Aedan?"

Cousland's smile was feral, teeth bared as he dropped into a defensive stance, shield up. "Indeed."

While they spoke, Anders pressed his hand to Fenris's back, easing the pain. Fenris gritted his teeth and clenched his fists against the ground, the arrow disintegrating.

"They have a mage!"

The talk was over, a clang of metal on metal as Cousland struck first. He let out a fierce cry and swung his blade again in a high arc, taking the soldier's head. It rolled down the hill as his body fell to the ground, the snow turning crimson around him. Arrow gone and pain fading, Fenris made it to his feet in time to draw his sword, blocking another arrow that came whistling at Anders' head. A brilliant ball of flame shot from Anders' staff, aiming above them to the cliffs, causing the archers to fall back. A few dropped down, Fenris turning to meet them. He dropped his cloak, ducking a blow, parrying another. He _felt_ Anders through their connection, knew when to move, when to drop or dodge as a fireball whooshed past him. A dazzling bolt of lightning lit the overcast sky, crackling from the heavens, catching three soldiers at once. They fell to the ground, twitching and writhing.

Another cry from behind and Fenris whirled, pushing his sweaty bangs from his forehead. It was the last soldier from the looks of the bodies. The archers had either fled or were killed by the fire that still smoldered above them. Cousland held the soldier down, pinned under the weight of one giant, plated boot. The man's eyes were wide with terror, his chin pressed up by the tip of Cousland's blade.

"Wait," Fenris said, stalking forward. He knelt down, looking the man in the eye. "How many more?"

"That… that was it!" the soldier stammered. "Just our company. I swear!"

"Who told you where to find me?" Fenris felt Anders behind him, but ignored him.

"T-Templar. Templars at the inn. Asked if we'd seen an elf matching your description! Please! Don't kill me! I have children!"

Fenris scowled. As if he would spare the man's life for something like that. Had Danarius not likely ordered them to bring him back alive, chances were the arrow would have been in his heart, not his shoulder. He'd be dead. He would still be grievously wounded if not for Anders and his quick magic. Fenris looked up at Cousland, who lowered his sword but did not remove his foot.

"You should have known better than to work for a magister," Fenris hissed. He phased his fist and plunged it into the man's chest.

Cousland jumped back at once, and Fenris heard Zevran shout something in Antivan. He didn't care. His fingers closed around the man's heart and he squeezed. The man let out a bloodcurdling scream, limbs twitching. Fenris twisted brutally and the heart stopped beating. The man lay dead, eyes open and staring, and he removed his fist, hand and wrist covered in gore. The stench of blood did nothing to quell the furious rage he felt building. He felt eyes on him, three sets, two of which he knew were full of questions he had no desire to answer.

Slowly he wiped his hand off on the man's cloak and, keeping his eyes downcast, stalked back to pick up his pack. He snatched it from the ground and started off north. A second later he heard Anders behind him, the light leather boots crunching in the snow, and anticipated the hand on his shoulder. It didn't come. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or irritated, and that angered him further. Why should he care if Anders touched him or not after that? But he knew the reason, deep down. He had a growing fondness for the mage, and a part of him desperately wanted someone to call a friend once more. Hawke had seen his abilities, Bethany had seen them. Neither flinched away, but that was the heat of battle. Did they truly understand?

Did Anders?

"Fenris."

His name, spoken so softly, so carefully, made him feel sick to his stomach. Anders was treating him like a wounded animal, and rightfully so. Fenris forced himself to slow, realizing that he was shaking slightly.

"I won't let them take you back," Anders said in that same soft tone. He lifted his hand once again and touched his arm.

Fenris growled low in his throat but moved toward the comfort instinctually. A moment later, he felt a familiar tingling buzz of magic pulse through his lyrium markings. "Thank you," he said, somewhat reluctantly.

The hand on his arm moved around his shoulders. It was a little awkward to walk the path this way, but Fenris leaned slightly against him. Had it been anyone else, they would have been in three pieces before they hit the ground. But he found himself trusting Anders. The thought was unnerving. A mage was hunting him, trying to reclaim him as property. And here was another mage, promising to keep him safe. It seemed a cruel twist of ironic fate.

"Anders."

Cousland's voice. Fenris stiffed, the arm sliding off his shoulders. He continued to walk even as Anders slowed to let the other two catch up.

"Do you mind telling me exactly what in the name of the Maker is going on?"

Fenris waited for Zevran to chime in with something sarcastic, but wisely he kept silent. Fenris pulled his hood up and low over his eyes. What if Cousland decided he was a liability? Did he have any authority when it came to the Crusaders? Would he tell Greagoir? Would Fenris be put on some sort of house arrest? He didn't mind the barracks, staying in the Circle wouldn't be such a bad thing, surrounded by people who could fight the Tevinter trackers should they come. But would Greagoir think he was worth the trouble?

A sudden, nasty thought came to him, filling him with anxiety and dread. What if they took Anders from him? If Greagoir and Irving and Karl decided that since he _was_ a liability that Anders was much better off with another Crusader? That it wasn't worth risking one of their healers on a hunted elf? He would have to turn in his cuff. He might never see the mage again. The fact that this was an actual possibility made him feel slightly sick to his stomach. Had he come to depend upon Anders so much? Did Anders feel similarly?

"I do, actually," Anders replied easily. "It's not as if we don't appreciate the help. And we do," he insisted. "It's not my story to tell."

"He's a slave." Cousland's tone was unreadable.

"No," Anders snapped. "He is not. He's a Crusader. _My_ Crusader, Warden-Commander, and if you take issue with him, you take issue with me. And if that's the case, I suggest we turn east instead of west so you can head to Redcliffe to request a different pair."

"Oh for Andraste's sake," Cousland sighed. "Anders you know I don't take issue. It would just have been nice to know about it-"

"Not your business," Anders replied quickly.

Fenris stopped, turning to look at the three of them. Anders frowned, brow furrowed and Fenris felt the concern pulsing against his wrist. The cuff was reassuringly warm. He stepped forward, touching Anders' hand, then turned to address Cousland. "I was a slave in the Tevinter Imperium. I escaped and have been running for a long time now. Commander Greagoir promised me quarter in exchange for work and that's what I've been doing. I'd thought there would been at least another month between attacks, but it seems my former master has redoubled his efforts."

"And the fact that you can kill a man by shoving your fist into his chest?" Cousland asked. Zevran made a noise as if he was going to say something, but Cousland held up a hand. His dark eyes were fixed on Fenris, waiting for an answer.

"Fenris doesn't owe anyone an explanation," Anders said vehemently.

Fenris felt the snaps of electricity in the air and turned again to Anders, impulsively reaching up, cupping his cheek. "Calm yourself."

Anders huffed, folded his arms, and turned slightly away.

Fenris dropped his hand and turned back to Cousland. He activated his markings, saw Zevran step forward, reaching for his knives, but Fenris stepped back, removing his cloak. The marking shone through his tunic. He increased the potency, concentrating on a technique he'd perfected over the years, learning what his brandings could do. Someone – Anders, perhaps – gasped as he burst into a bluish light, appearing as an ethereal flame. Or, as someone had once called it, a lyrium ghost. He spread his arms, letting them get a good look before deactivating the markings, eyes never leaving Cousland.

"I imagine a time will come when my master will send hunters for just my skin. Lyrium is costly and he invested a great deal into me. His most expensive, prized possession."

Cousland's expression was unfathomable. Something like fear and rage rolled into one. "I… see."

"Let him come," Zevran spoke suddenly. His voice was lacking his normal jovial inflection. "And he will see that we do not suffer slavers gladly. You are a free elf. And any man who contests it will taste our blades."

Fenris felt a whirl of gratitude in his chest as Anders looked at Zevran. Cousland nodded, and Fenris pulled his cloak back on, shivering now in the cold. The familiar warming spell shimmered over his skin as Anders raised a hand, fingers brushing against his cheek. Fenris tried not to lean into the touch, feeling extremely exposed and somewhat embarrassed. He'd told two more people of his past, and they'd not turned away.

"Come. We have a long walk ahead of us. Several days through the mountains at least," Cousland said. He shifted his pack on his shoulders and started off, Zevran following.

"Thank you," Anders said quietly.

"For what?"

"Trusting. I know it's not easy."

Fenris looked at Anders, returning the small, tight-lipped smile. They followed the others down the trail, and Fenris slowly started to realize that perhaps this mage was someone he could count on, someone he could trust with his life.

It was a terrifying realization.


	14. Chapter 14

The next several days bled into one another as they trekked through the mountains. The air was thin and cold in the Frostbacks, and Fenris no longer held any aversion to Anders reapplying the warming spell to his skin. Zevran, who was used to balmy Antivan winters, appreciated the mage's skills as well. Their nights were broken into three watches though they saw little in the way of opposition save for the occasional bear or wolf pack that was driven off with a bit of fire. And, despite their usefulness, Fenris was beginning to deeply resent the Warden-Commander and his plucky companion, who had tried to engage him in conversation despite his supreme reluctance.

_"We are both elves. Surely we have much to discuss!"_

As if the mere fact that they both were of the same race would somehow make them the closest of friends. On the third night, however, Fenris did respond to his inane prattling as he spoke at length about Cousland's adventures and his fight with the Archdemon. He appreciated the information if nothing else, but something was nagging at the back of his mind.

"You were in Denerim. In the alienage when the Tevinter slavers were there."

Zevran's head snapped up, eyes first going to Cousland, who was walking ahead on the trail with Anders. He looked sidelong at Fenris, a frown lining his usually smiling face. "I would not mention them so close to Aedan. It was… very bad business."

"I've lived it," Fenris said, feeling a little sick. He'd gotten angry before, hearing the story of Tevinter slavers being allowed to take elves as part of a deal. "It was a man called Howe?"

"Shh!" Zevran hissed. His eyes returned again to Cousland, but neither he nor Anders had turned. "We try not to speak that name. You understand, that man… he did quite terrible things. But yes, it was him as well as Loghain. Once a hero of Ferelden himself during Orlesian occupation. This… is not the place to discuss such stories though, hm?"

Fenris would have protested, but Zevran moved away on his own accord for the first time, and Fenris let him. It had given him a lot to think about. He didn't wonder as to the motivations of Howe and Loghain – it had to be money or power. With men like that, it always was. He felt the disgust of it all like a rock that settled in his stomach. His hatred of the Imperium, the magisters, and all they stood for, burning and eating away at him like some sort of poison that refused to leave his system. He wanted to let it go, but how could he? Danarius yet lived, all of his fellow magisters still thrived. He wanted to raze the whole country to the ground, to rip it out by its rotted roots. But he was a lone elf with no power, political or otherwise. And he had no allies.

_Except Anders._

His thoughts turned as they so regularly did to Anders, who glanced back to make sure he was all right. Fenris waved him off and for once Anders allowed him his solitude. He actually smiled at the burst of concern across their link, and massaged the cuff gently, almost consolingly. The ability to communicate feelings without words was intriguing, and only became clearer and easier as the days wore on. What was initially an odd sensation, feeling someone else's emotions, became almost second nature. It wasn't the same as when he'd been able to read his former master's moods. Danarius's countenance changed subtly, but years of serving him intimately afforded Fenris knowledge of what his master needed, or if Fenris should simply get out of his way. He took great pains to make sure Danarius's ire was not focused on him.

But with Anders, he found their connection soothing. He was the only person, mage or otherwise, that Fenris felt comfortable with letting close to him in a long time. Even Dagna, who was unassuming and the least threatening person he'd likely ever met in his life, he kept at arm's length. Perhaps it was the enchantment, and part of him wanted to remove the cuff to see if the feelings lingered. The other part… the other part trembled at the very idea of losing that connection again. Was it the magic that caused such a visceral reaction in him? It had to be. But his mind didn't feel clouded as it had when other spells were used on him, and it didn't hurt like so many others.

He let out a sigh, his breath evaporating in the air in a white puff. Perhaps when they returned to the Circle he could ask Dagna how they worked exactly. Despite not having a mage herself, she would likely have researched the magical enchantment out of curiosity. He envied her in a way, the ability to be so entranced with the world where he, himself, was a cynic by nature and nurture. She hadn't let her experiences color her outlook and even now she remained positive and hadn't blamed him for being assigned a mage that much sooner than she had. He felt a spark of guilt at that, and wished he'd said more in his last letter to her.

The days dragged on, the climb becoming steeper but not insurmountable. Zevran and Cousland remarked at the last time they'd been up this path, which was well-hidden. They consulted several maps, stating that the area looked different in winter than in the late spring when they'd last been. But Cousland assured them he knew where they were going. On the last evening that they set camp, after hunting several hares for their supper, Cousland sat unceremoniously next to Fenris, handing him a fresh whetstone. Fenris wondered what his motivations were, but took it all the same with a quiet word of thanks. Anders was scouting ahead with Zevran; Fenris felt him some meters to the west. A warm reassurance surged across their bond and he fought against the slightly giddy feeling that accompanied the acknowledgment that his mage was safe.

"Zevran said you asked about the alienage in Denerim." Cousland's voice was steady and quiet as he stared into the fire.

Fenris drew the stone carefully down his greatsword as he contemplated this. "He said not to talk to you about it. That it upset you to think on it."

Cousland frowned, sitting cross-legged now, hands resting on his thighs. "Zevran overreacts. But don't blame him. There's nothing he wouldn't do to keep me safe."

Fenris believed it. He caught the looks the other elf gave Cousland, how he watched as Anders patched up a cut from a tussle with the wildlife. There was much more to the story between them, but Fenris wouldn't press. He understood enough of love and devotion to excuse Zevran's protectiveness. "What happened in Denerim?"

Cousland nodded a little. "It was Tevinters. Invited here, sanctioned by Howe." He couldn't keep the growl from his voice when he spoke the man's name. "Loghain knew what was happening. Or he had an idea. He turned his head. The Tevinters, they faked some sort of plague. Brought the elves into an infirmary on the false pretenses of healing them. Packed them away in crates and shipped them off."

The anger Fenris heard in Cousland's tone, the desperation, it was heartening in a way. "What happened?" he pressed.

"It was a man called Caladrius. He organized it all. Stood in that room with his cages, with… children." His hands clenched into fists atop his thighs and Fenris watched his expression, normally relaxed, twist hideously as he recalled. "He offered me a deal so he could keep them." Cousland swallowed. "I took his head instead."

The silence stretched until Fenris spoke at last. "Thank you."

Cousland looked at him, the firelight flickering in his dark eyes. "What is Tevinter like? The elves that I couldn't save…"

Fenris knew Cousland wouldn't want him to sugarcoat the answer, even if it meant alleviating the guilt he felt at losing the elves, at perhaps not getting there fast enough to save them. "Upon arrival in the cities, they'll be stripped and washed and prepared for the block. Separated. Mothers will never see their children again. Husbands will never hold their wives in their arms. Though, that's likely for the best. Married slaves in the same household, the magisters care nothing for it. They'll take the women for their own pleasures if they wish.

"They're sold to the highest bidder. Some will be household slaves. Cooking. Cleaning. Some will be…" He licked his dry, chapped lips, turning back to look at the fire as he recalled the things he'd seen in Danarius's service. "Some will be bled for rituals and power. Many will not survive and those that mourn them will likely wish it had been themselves instead." He pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them, fingers of his right hand gripping his left wrist, touching the cool metal cuff. It pulsed, and he felt the concern welling in his breast. With a breath, he tried to force himself to relax. Anger and frustration would bring Anders back prematurely from his perimeter walk.

"But you survived it."

"I was a bodyguard," Fenris said simply. "I remember… I remember fighting for my master. I was trained by a Crow, actually." Though no assassin himself, he could be deadly with twin blades though he preferred the two-handed greatsword now at his side. "I remember receiving the markings, lyrium burned into my skin, but before that… most of it is simply gone. I survived because I was useful beyond a body that bled. I made sure of it, after… after seeing…"

He recalled a party, a parlor trick, the screams of a child, a little boy, as Danarius bled him out.

"That's enough of that," Anders said, breaking through the clearing. He set his staff down and knelt next to Fenris, Zevran standing at the edge of their camp, watching.

"I am fine, mage," Fenris said, feeling drained.

Anders glared at Cousland. "What happened?"

"Mage," Fenris growled, reaching up, gripping his chin. He forced Anders to look at him. "We were merely talking. I am fine."

"If you're thure," Anders managed against Fenris's grip.

Fenris sighed but smiled and, rolling his eyes, he released him. "Care to take first watch?" he asked Cousland.

"Of course." He stood, brushing himself off and gestured to Zevran. They disappeared together into the trees.

Fenris spread out the bedroll, pleased when Anders pushed his own next to his. They'd been sleeping in close proximity when their watches afforded it, and Fenris drew comfort from it. It was yet another thing he'd gotten used to on their trek. A warm, woolen blanket was thrown over him, and he felt Anders slide closer to him. A second later, an arm wrapped around his waist. He tensed, then relented, inching back against him. The added body heat was also welcome. Despite the fire, it was still a very cold evening. He was looking forward to a proper shelter upon reaching Haven.

"Are you going to tell me what got you so upset?" Anders whispered, hot breath tickling the back of Fenris's neck.

"If you're that concerned," Fenris said, turning his head slightly so he could talk more clearly. "We spoke of Denerim. The alienage and the slavers. He wanted to know what fate awaited them in the Imperium. I told him. I… recalled a few things that were less then pleasant. Memories of Danarius."

Anders' arm around him tightened. "Remember what you told me. You're not there anymore."

"No," Fenris agreed. "I am in the middle of a freezing cold mountain range during a harsh Ferelden winter. The tips of my ears will likely form icicles and freeze, cracking off upon morning."

Anders laughed, and Fenris joined him. When they quieted, the warming spell Anders used was reapplied, and the hand that was previously around him reached up to tug gently on the tip of his ear. Fenris shivered. Like most elves, he disliked anyone touching his ears. It was an intimate, familiar gesture and he wasn't sure if his slow reluctance to allowing Anders close included the brief contact as well.

"They feel warm to me."

"Do that again and I'll not be responsible for my actions," Fenris said, though his tone was light. "You may find yourself short a limb or two."

"Maker, you are touchy," Anders huffed. He settled down and his arm came across Fenris's waist once more.

Feeling warmer than he'd been, and oddly comfortable, Fenris drifted slowly off to sleep.

-

They reached Haven the next day, a tiny hamlet that was several decades removed from the rest of Thedas. Ferelden was already behind in its industry, at least in comparison to Tevinter which worked hand in hand with the dwarves to improve approaches to agriculture and other things that made life in the Imperium easier. At least for the magisters. The houses that remained in the village of Haven were crumbling, falling to disrepair. They were quiet as they walked through the ankle deep snow, largely undisturbed save for animal tracks. The shop, or the building that had formerly been the shop, stood to their right, the door hanging off its hinges. It was easy to believe that this abandoned town was full of ghosts; that the spirits of the dead were waiting to jump out at unsuspecting travelers.

"Watch out!" Zevran cried, throwing himself at Fenris.

Before Fenris could react, he found himself landing hard in the snow, the other elf atop him. He opened his mouth to ask him what in the Void he thought he was doing, but only had time to react instinctually, grabbing Zevran and rolling in the snow. A huge figure dressed in black tattered rags stood above them, wielding an axe as big as itself, the silver blade dripping with thick black blood. It brought the axe down directly where they had been laying. Zevran must have saved his life, and in the next second, Fenris returned the favor.

Fenris was off him in a heartbeat, markings flaring to life as he looked for his sword while trying to keep an eye on the thing. Two arrows fired by Cousland one after the other caught the figure in the back. A shriek that sounded like nails on slate echoed from its gaping maw. Fenris saw rows of razor sharp teeth centered in its somewhat lopsided, almost mushroom-like head. Two eyes flicked open, bright red and shining. He'd seen demons and spirits, watched magisters call upon shades and knew what darkspawn looked like from drawings and tapestry weavings. This was unlike anything he'd ever seen before. The thing turned, almost gliding in its movements. Fenris had no idea if it lacked feet, the rags it wore dragging low against the snow.

He took the creature's distraction as opportunity to pull his sword from the snow. Hefting it in both hands, he whirled to see Anders point his staff at the sky, his skin shimmering with white light. A sudden buzz of magical energy filled the area and with a huge _crack_ , a bolt of electricity was pulled from the sky, landing directly on the tip of the creature's head. The rags caught fire and the stench of burning, putrid flesh clung to the back of his throat, making him gag. But the fire burned out almost instantly, the thing turning its focus to Anders. Pieces of burnt and blackened flesh dropped off it, and it was no longer gliding, but lumbering.

Fenris didn't hesitate. He ran full at the creature, leaping into the air and with a cry, brought his sword across his chest, hacking at the thing's neck. His momentum carried him forward and he rolled gracefully in the snow, turning to see the damage he'd done. The thing's head was on the ground, but the axe was still in its hand.

"How the fuck is that thing still standing?!" The cry came from Cousland, who stood slightly in front of Anders, shield raised. He blocked a blow from the headless creature's axe.

Zevran ran in, hacking and slicing with his twin blades, a dull splintering sound as bones snapped. Its arms fell to the ground, the axe falling with it. The moment that followed would have been comedic if not for the mortal peril they felt, the creature swiveling left and right, armless now as it tried to comprehend what was happening to it. With a shout, Cousland spun once, using the force to strike the thing in the middle with his sword. It exploded in a shower of black dust and shadow, staining the snow beneath its feet with grey ash. Fenris holstered his sword and approached carefully as did the others. The only thing that was left of the creature was its wicked looking axe, the rest of its body disintegrated.

Zevran swore low in Antivan, a string of it spilling from his lips so fast that Fenris caught only a few words of surprise and concern. Cousland shook his head, sliding his own sword into its sheath, his shield returning to its place on his back. He knelt down, removed a small dagger, and flicked a few pieces of rag before looking up at them.

"Some sort of… manifestation of anger," Anders said, shivering.

Fenris skirted around Cousland, at Anders' side in a second. He felt him trembling and took his elbow. "You felt something?"

Anders nodded, eyes closing as he shuddered. "A demon, perhaps. Not a rage demon, but something truly malevolent."

"Do you have any idea where it came from?" Cousland asked, standing.

"No," Anders said, looking at him now. He took several deep breaths. "I've never seen anything like it, not in the Fade. I've never heard any enchanter talk about… I need to report this Irving."

"We're not staying here long," Cousland promised. "Our final destination is up the hill, under the mountain. Shouldn't take more than an hour to get through and by nightfall we'll be far from this place."

Fenris wondered if he could detect a hint of worry in Couslad's tone or if he was just slightly winded from the fight. He wouldn't have blamed him; Haven was disturbing to begin with and that thing, whatever it was, was foul. It left them all shaken, and as they traversed the ramshackle building, no one spoke. A not-so-hidden door opened to reveal a passage that led them into a high ceilinged cavernous room where they stopped to refill their water skins in a shallow pool. Fenris marveled at the architecture, the carvings. They looked almost dwarven in make, and they might have been. But more likely, he reasoned, the whole thing was fashioned by the Alamarri. Tevinter was steeped in history, but the new was built atop the old. This was untouched for centuries by any hand.

"The full story," Cousland said, splashing some water on his face before retying his hair back, "is a bit complicated. The short of it is that the tale of Andraste's Ashes is real. It's what cured Eamon's illness."

Fenris recalled several stories of Andraste, including the one that her ashes possessed magical healing properties beyond anything the world had ever seen. But he thought it had been just that, make-believe.

"So we're going back for it?" Anders asked. "What are the chances it's still there? Surely people must've come through here, looking."

"I don't think so," Cousland said. "I spoke to Genitivi, the Chantry Brother who wrote his articles on it. No one seemed to believe him. If anyone came through here, it's unlikely they found anything. The ashes are guarded by a series of tests."

They walked on, climbing a steep stone staircase in the middle of the vast chamber. Cousland moved quickly by memory, not bothering to slow or stop as he led them through the temple. Fenris felt a cool wind from somewhere, glancing up at the cracks in the ceiling. The entire thing seemed to be built directly into the side of the mountain, though he hadn't seen evidence of it from the outside. A very well-hidden temple then. And the village there to either disguise the entrance or its citizens left to guard it.

"What happened to the inhabitants of the town?" Fenris asked, though he thought he might have already guessed.

"They attacked us."

"In quite a fit of rage," Zevran added. "I remember plucking at least three arrows from your person."

"Try to sound a little less happy about that," Cousland said wryly.

"My dear Aedan. Whenever I can touch your skin, it is always happy moment for me. As long as you are not bleeding out, of course. Which at the time, you were not. You were simply complaining that the mosquito bite you suffered earlier in the month hurt more than the arrows."

Anders snickered, a wave of amusement passing through their bond. "Still," he said, once the laughter left him. "Do you think that thing that attacked us was left over from the villagers?"

"The revered father who was here was an insane mage," Cousland said, "but I don't think he could have summoned that thing. And we cleared the town before we left."

"A revered… father?" Anders asked, arching an eyebrow.

"It is such in Tevinter," Fenris said. "The Divine is always male, and often an enchanter from the Minrathous Circle." He hadn't planned on saying more, but Anders was looking at him with rapt interest. It was unnerving; was Anders interested purely from a cultural standpoint or had he planned on using the knowledge somehow in future? "It's largely a patriarchy," he concluded quietly.

"What we were taught," Cousland said, picking up the story easily as they continued through the temple into a set of caves, "was that because of Maferath's betrayal, only women were allowed to be revered mothers. There was controversy in even letting men become affirmed, and most that did would rather continue on to become templars."

Anders' irritation was palpable both through their shared link and from the way his gait changed. He took harder steps, kicking pebbles as they went. "What are they like in Tevinter?"

"Templars?" Fenris asked, frowning. "Largely ineffective. They're the country's army, though with no real power. They do as they are bid by the Magisterium."

"But what about templar abilities? Like the ones you learned," Anders pressed. "Smites and silences and things."

"I… I am not sure," Fenris confessed, looking down at his hands. He'd used said abilities on Jowan during their practice sparring session. While he would use them again and gladly on any mage that dared try to attack him, the thought of turning his powers against Anders made him feel somewhat ill. "Why? Thinking about running off north?" he snapped, suddenly irritated.

He would later recognize his anger as fear. Fear of being abandoned yet again by a mage he was tasked with keeping safe. In so many ways, Fenris could compare Anders to Danarius, and part of him wanted to hate him as much as he hated his old master. But Anders had been kind and patient. Exasperating at times yes, but someone whose company he was learning to enjoy.

"Trouble in paradise," Zevran said lightly, ignoring the pointed look Cousland gave him.

Anders didn't dignify the question with a response. "Wouldn't it be nice," he said carefully, "if that were the case here? Templars without power. No Rite of Tranquility, no Right of Annulment. Mages could be in control of their own lives and live as they saw fit."

"Mages turning to blood magic for power. Enslaving others to do their bidding. Yes, it would be quite enjoyable," Fenris said acidly, and felt a flash of anger across their bond. Perhaps he'd gone too far.

"Yes because all mages want that. Maker's breath, you know, most of us just want a quiet life. Instead we're forced either to live in a tower as prisoners or we have to join the Church and be babysat by templar washouts who'd rather see us Tranquil!"

"Anders," Cousland spoke. "I'm not saying that your anger isn't justified, but-"

"But what?" Anders snarled. "You think either is a solution? That just because we have magic, we should be forced into servitude?"

There was obviously no good answer that wouldn't set Anders to rage, and Fenris decided to turn the tables, taking several deep breaths and sending waves of calm toward him. His cuff responded with the familiar warmth, his markings flaring dully.

Anders glared at him, then without warning, shoved him away forcefully. "Stop!"

Fenris skittered on the stone, knees bent to keep his balance as he spread his hands. "Very mature." He resisted adding the word, 'mage' to the end of his sentence, feeling as if the word – which had become something of an endearment over the past several days – would only exacerbate his anger.

"What did he do?" Zevran asked, curious.

"Stupid jewelry," Anders muttered, then looked at Fenris. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Fenris assured him. Maker only knew how many times he'd snapped at Anders in exactly the same way. It was somewhat embarrassing that it happened in front of Cousland and Zevran, the latter of which seemed to think it was a lover's spat. Fenris supposed that was to be expected, considering the intimacy of the mage-Crusader relationship.

"He knows how to get under my skin, that's all," Anders explained further.

"Oh, I see," Zevran said, a false air of innocence that was fooling no one.

"Before you even start," Cousland said, "don't."

"You wound me," Zevran gasped. "Not everything is a euphemism with me. Is it with you? Perhaps you should bring your mind out of the gutter."

Fenris saw Cousland roll his eyes, a faint smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. He sighed, shaking his head a little. It shouldn't matter what either of them thought about his relationship with Anders. He felt slightly embarrassed that they'd been observed using the jewelry to communicate wordlessly, as if he allowed them to witness something that was too personal for explanation. He was starting to understand why Bethany and Hawke had trouble describing the connection. It was something that needed to be experienced to understand.

A large wooden door, old and rotted and looking singularly out of place stood at the end of a long cavern. Zevran helped Cousland remove the drawbar and they pushed it open, the hinges creaking and rusted. A freezing gust of wind blew in from outside and Fenris turned to shield himself from it. They stepped out into the snow, Anders moving ahead to blast a path through it with a stream of flame.

"It was spring when we came up here last," Cousland said. "not a bit of frost on the ground."

"Who needs frost when you have dragons, after all," Zevran quipped. He gestured to a particularly large pile of snow. "The bones, they're still here."

"A dragon?" Fenris asked. He'd never actually seen one. In Tevinter there were bones, even a skeleton of an enormous one that was said to have belonged to the Old God Dumat. Not that he believed it. The Imperium was decorated with dragons of all kinds, the heraldry of many magisters and their houses some type of serpent. Snakelike dragons, dragons with four arms or three heads, long spiky tails. He wondered how many of them actually existed, or if most came directly from the artists' imagination.

"A high dragon. She was a tough bitch," Zevran confirmed. He pushed up his sleeve revealing a long shiny burn on his forearm. "My Aedan, he has a scar as well. You could see it if you wished…"

"Zev," Cousland cut in. "She was guarding a nest," he said, changing the subject, gesturing up the cliff. The remains of an old, gnarled dragon's nest was just visible over the ridge. "No eggs. Just a lovely great hoard of treasure."

"And what treasure it was," Zevran sighed.

Fenris looked at the bones, buried under layers of snow and ice as they crossed to another cavernous area. He wanted to examine them, a part of him slightly jealous that his companions had been able to see a dragon and he had not. Though, he wasn't sure he relished the idea of facing one so large. The area they passed into was constructed from dark stone, opposed to the bluish hued ice caves from before. Anders knocked his staff against the ground, the silver dragon's head on top alighting at once. Its eyes let out an eerie luminescence.

Stalactites hung ominously from the ceiling, though it was too dark to see beyond that. Fenris heard a fluttering of wings. Bats, perhaps. A steady dripping sound echoed in the distance, and their boots crunched on the broken rocks. A rather sudden anxious feeling overcame them all seemingly at once, as if they were expecting another wraith-like creature to attack. Fenris nearly jumped as Anders reached out and grabbed his wrist.

"What is it?" Fenris asked as the other two stopped as well.

A screeching sound, the call of some large beast thundered through the cavern. Anders brightened the light of his staff, and three figures nearly the size of horses and shrouded in shadow swooped down from the side of the cave. Zevran's bow was in his hand in seconds, but the figures were gone just as quickly.

"What in the Maker's name was that?" Cousland breathed, crouched low, shield up and sword in hand.

Fenris didn't answer, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light, able to see further than the two humans. Zevran hissed just as Fenris saw it, and in unison came their gasps of, "Dragons!"

But Cousland and Anders didn't have to wait long to see what the elves saw. Two dragons, their wings too small to afford real flight, but large enough to allow them to glide, approached from behind. Three more flanked them, a clever pincer move that forced the four of them back to back. Fenris felt Anders' solid form behind him, cuff pulsating with warmth and anticipation.

"They are not the kind that breathe fire, I hope," Zevran quipped, arrow trained on the neck of one.

"Let's not give them the time to find out," Cousland said. With a shout, he surged forward.

Fenris, greatsword in hand, activated his lyrium brands as he followed. He felt Anders still behind him as he dodged and swung, leaping back as one of the dragons opened its mouth to emit not a burst of flame, but ice. Fenris could imagine getting caught easily in the blast, how simple it would be to lose a limb. He focused on bringing one away from the pack, dancing nimbly out of the reach of its talons as it swiped at him. Despite the chill, sweat formed on his forehead, he felt it roll down his cheeks as he moved, dodging more than striking. The dragon, irritated, reared back, raising its head to prepare a blast of ice.

Fenris took his chance.

Infused with a burst of extra speed and power from his markings, he ran forward, skidding on his knees as he brought the blade up, slicing along its jugular, down its belly, and phased easily through its body. He'd pierced its vocal chords; it was silent as it died. Its blue scales were soaked in blood, which stained the stone floor. Fenris shook his hair from his face and turned toward the others. Zevran was standing atop one, its eyes pierced by twin arrows, thrashing wildly. The agile elf leapt up, shooting one last fatal arrow in its head before landing nimbly, tucking into a roll. He dropped his bow and withdrew his blades, swinging one, then the other into another dragon's hide as Cousland knocked it back with his shield.

A cry and a burst of panic through their link, and Fenris was moving before he even saw Anders backed against the far wall, crowded in by two other dragons. A magical silver shield kept them at bay, Anders flinching as they tried to ice it over. He threw out his free hand, letting loose with a crackle of electricity. The dragons reared back in surprise and pain. Another volley of ice and the shield fell.

"NO!"

The cry came from Fenris, ripped from his own throat as Anders threw out a hand to erect the shield once more. Too late, a claw tore through Ander's coat, shoulder to hip and he fell back, staff clattering to the ground. A third dragon that Fenris hadn't seen lay dead off to the side, its carcass smoldering. Fenris didn't think about it, didn't think how the mage had held off three of the dragons on his own. His only concern was getting to him before they struck again. His world turned a brilliant white, brandings brighter than the midday sun. Someone shouted, but he couldn't hear, blood pounding in his ears, heart thudding hard against his chest.

He was a whirlwind of lyrium and blade, impervious to his own aches and pains. A claw caught his thigh, he felt the muscle tear and only faltered momentarily before thrusting his own fist into the beast's chest, ripping its heart out with a _squelch_. Its brother fell after, either Cousland or Zevran's blade finishing it off. Fenris didn't care. He came back to himself, lyrium markings dulling on their own accord as the adrenaline faded. His thigh screamed in pain but it bore his weight as he limped to Anders' side, kneeling down, pulling the ripped fabric of cloak and coat and tunic from the skin.

" _Venhedis_ , mage," he swore, tearing the cloth further apart.

"Fenris," Anders hissed, batting at his hands weakly.

Fenris pulled a health poultice from his pack. A faint mewling, and a pulse of worry through their bond distracted him. He looked over. Ser Pounce-a-lot, fur matted in blood, lay slumped on the ground. The feeling of concern for the cat was surreal. What did he care for it? Anders was hurt. Leave it to the mage to worry about a _cat_ of all things at a time like this.

"Is he…?"

"Shut up," Fenris snapped, slathering the potion on the wound. He heard Cousland and Zevran behind him, but thankfully neither spoke as he worked. His skills with first aid in Tevinter had been mediocre. Traveling as a lone elf, an ex-slave for the last few years had vastly improved his skill, but he was no healer. "Use your magic!"

"Mana," Anders rasped.

Cousland knelt, a glass vial of blue liquid lyrium between his fingers. He gripped Anders' chin and held it to his lips. Fenris watched him swallow, breathing a sigh of relief as the salve combined with a light-blue glow served to knit the skin together.

"Pounce," Anders insisted, his throat raw.

Fenris dug for his water skin first, then started to stand to retrieve the cat, thinking how foolish Anders was.

Unfortunately, a new figure had emerged from the shadows, and was slowly stroking the ginger tabby.


	15. Chapter 15

Fenris's first instinct was to move between the newcomer and Anders, but the wound on his thigh gave him no choice but to retreat to a crouch. Slim fingers wound around his wrist, covering the silver cuff. A burst of healing magic, a tingling buzz through his markings, and the wound closed, taking the accompanying pain with it. Cousland and Zevran moved forward as one and Fenris was grateful. The figure holding Ser Pounce-a-lot was tall, at least a head above Cousland, but thinner even than Fenris himself. _Demon_ was the first thought that occurred to Fenris, his eyes taking in the man's long black hair that fell past his shoulders, his bright, ice-blue eyes, and two protruding white horns which spiraled up toward the ceiling.

He was clad in a tailored suit of midnight blue, a long white cape flowing behind him. His fingers were stroking the blood-matted fur, the black leather gloves he wore wiping away the crimson. He looked first at Cousland, who had his shield up, sword at the ready, then to Zevran, who was crouched low, one dagger raised, the other pointed at the floor. Apparently not seeing them as a threat, the man dropped his gaze to Ser Pounce-a-lot, bringing the immobile form up toward his lips. He took a breath and let it out, a white fog enveloping the cat, reminding Fenris horribly of the Fog Warriors, though their clouds had been artificially manufactured with chemicals.

_"He is continued to be alive,"_ the man said.

Or that's what Fenris thought he said. The words were Ancient Tevene, but the dialect was strange, and he only knew a smattering of the dead language.

_"Are you friend or foe?"_ Fenris answered, using the more modern dialect, the one spoken by the magisters when there was no need for the trade tongue.

The man clucked his tongue, bending to release Ser Pounce-a-lot who ran to Anders immediately. Fenris felt the wash of gratitude, relief, and excitement, and wished he could push the feelings aside. Damned foolish mage, getting so emotional over a cat. He stood, inching between Cousland and Zevran, who cautiously lowered their weapons.

"What's he saying?" Cousland asked.

"It is an old dialect," Fenris admitted, not taking his eyes from the stranger. _"Are you a demon?"_ he asked, though he didn't expect a straight answer.

A shuffling of sound behind him. Anders had gotten to his feet. As much as Fenris didn't like admitting it even to himself, he was relieved when he felt his mage move to stand next to him.

The man clucked his tongue again. _"Dragon."_

"Dragon?" Anders asked. " _Dracona_. That's dragon. Is he talking about the attack?"

Fenris frowned. "He says he is a dragon." Which would make him a mage, not a demon. Still just as dangerous, possibly even more so. Shapeshifters were rare in Tevinter, but he knew of one in particular that Danarius counted among his allies. His favorite form was a murder of crows.

"Bullshit," Zevran said, though he holstered his blades. "Tell him to prove it."

Fenris looked back at him incredulously. "Perhaps you'd like to be the one to provoke the shapeshifting dragon-mage that has the ability to bring back animals from near death? Hm? Be my guest," he said, gesturing.

Zevran crossed his arms but said nothing, glancing down as he kicked slightly at the ground.

Fenris turned back to the man, who was frowning. _"You are a mage? An apostate?"_ he tried, in a mix of ancient and current Tevene.

The man's mouth quirked, lips pursed as if he were thinking, then in a move so fast Fenris swore he'd blinked and missed it, the man's hand was at his throat, squeezing. He gasped, reaching out, but his own arms were too short, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the mage's clothing. A bolt of energy shot from Anders' fingers, Fenris could feel the anger and panic through their bond. It bounced uselessly off the man's shoulder, and in another second, he was gone in shadow, reappearing in his original position some feet away. The entire exchange took perhaps five seconds, and aside from a bruised throat, Fenris was fine. He drew in several deep breaths, leaning into a warm hand on his back. Anders rubbed gently, whispering something – words of comfort? A spell? Too quietly for Fenris to hear, despite their close proximity.

_"I think this is sufficiently better,"_ the man said smoothly. _"I am Vovanis. I am a dragon. You slaughtered my sons."_

_"They attacked us!"_ Fenris shot back.

"What's going on?" Cousland demanded, unable to translate.

Vovanis held up a placating hand. _"Forgive me. We have seen too many travelers come seeking the Urn of Sacred Ashes. Those who would use the Prophet's remains for nefarious purposes. You are the most determined yet. And the most skilled."_

Fenris scowled, wondering if he should feel honored by the compliment. He translated quickly for Cousland.

"Others?" Cousland asked, eyes narrowing. "Who? Genitivi said no one in the Chantry believed him when he told them of this place. Were they bandits?"

Fenris asked. _"What about the thing that attacked us outside the village? It was like a revenant, but different somehow. Did those people bring that here?"_

Vovanis tilted his head a little, crossing his arms. _"Possibly. I know not of which you speak. For months we suffered intruders into our nest. I do not wish to see my brethren die when there are so few of us left. Tell me why you seek the Urn."_

Fenris addressed Cousland directly, vaguely aware of Anders' hand which moved from his back to his shoulder. He did not shrug it off. "He wishes to know why you want Andraste's ashes."

Cousland licked his lips, and Fenris realized he was nervous. "For the Grey Wardens. Both to aid in the recruitment process and… "

Zevran touched his hand, a low noise of sympathy escaping his lips.

"And for other things," Cousland responded.

There was more to the story, Fenris knew. Hopefully Vovanis would accept a half-truth. _"This man is a Grey Warden, he-"_

Vovanis immediately bowed low, one hand at his waist, the other sweeping his long white cape behind him. Though it was heavily accented, the words, "Grey Warden," were audible.

"Well. That is not the sort of respect you see every day, is it?" Zevran asked, his eyebrow raised in amusement. "You know, you should demand more people bow and address you such when they enter the Vigil."

"People can bow to my brother," Cousland muttered. "Fenris, ask him if he can help us."

Fenris asked, and Vovanis responded enthusiastically, disappearing into a white cloud. It lifted through the air and they could just make out a silhouette of a very large dragon. One long, silent minute they waited until Vovanis reappeared behind them, crouching as he landed, an ornate stone urn cradled in his arm.

"That's it!" Cousland said, stepping forward. He stopped, looking to Fenris. "We don't… have to do any trials or tests to get it, do we?"

"I remember the first time we came through," Zevran said. "Alistair laughed when you stripped to your smallclothes, and the look on his face when you told him to do the same to step through the fire."

"And you did it naked," Cousland mused.

Fenris shook his head at the wistful reminiscing and turned to Vovanis. The dragon was already holding the urn out to Cousland, who took it with a nod of thanks. Vovanis held onto it, looking him in the eye.

"What-"

"Grey Warden," Vovanis said.

"Er. Yes?"

_"May the Maker guide you on your noble quest. But beware that your country faces a threat worse than darkspawn. Ready your griffon."_

Before Fenris could ask what he meant, he disappeared again, Cousland's quick reflexes keeping the urn from slipping to the floor.

"A threat worse than darkspawn," Fenris muttered.

"What?" Anders asked.

Fenris cleared his throat. "He said to ready your griffon, that your country faces a threat worse than darkspawn."

Cousland's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Isn't that just typical?" Zevran asked. "We cannot travel anywhere it seems without some mystical being spouting random bits of wisdom at us before poofing away. Perhaps he did not like your face. Oh well. More for me."

"Ominous threats from shapeshifting dragons talking about griffons," Cousland mused, looking down at the urn. He turned from the group, grabbing up his pack and carefully stowing it away. "Let's get out of here."

Fenris couldn't agree more.

-

They collectively decided not to make camp in Haven or anywhere near the town. Despite their aches and exhaustion, they traveled down the mountain until dawn, the sun peeking up over the Frostbacks behind them. Making camp in the mouth of a shallow cave, Anders erected a barrier that would hold while they slept. He conjured a small spell wisp to stand guard.

"We all need sleep," he insisted.

"Sleep would be welcome, but not so much if our throats are slit because one of us is not on watch," Zevran pointed out.

Fenris looked at the flitting ball of light above their heads. He was too tired to argue with Anders or agree with Zevran, the fighting from the previous day followed by hiking through the night taking its toll. He winced as he shook out his bedroll and removed his sword, though kept it close. Cousland whispered something, tugging Zevran down to the opposite side of the fire. He heard Zevran's weak protests, but yawned, eyes closed before his head hit the pillow. A warm weight settled behind him, Anders' arm coming over his waist, and he was asleep before he could acknowledge him.

He dreamed of a black empty space. He was walking, unable to see more than a foot in front of himself. His lyrium brands were gone, his arms free from them. Looking down, he realized he was naked, but his body wasn't his own. Chin-length hair fell into his eyes and he tucked it back behind human ears. His skin, normally an olive tone, somewhat darker in the summer, was pale and freckled, and a light dusting of hair decorated his chest and lower at his stomach and groin.

_'He's laughing.'_

_'Hit him again.'_

A burning hot pain ripped across his back and he fell to his knees. The blackness faded and he was in a stone room, a thin carpet under his hands and knees. In his peripheral vision he saw a table and chairs and a fireplace, and at least three sets of armored legs. It was nothing like he remembered from Tevinter. He heard the scraping of plate metal as someone brought the whip down again. He cried out, but the voice wasn't his own.

_Anders._

The mage was dreaming. He had to be. And here he was, with him, in his body. He tried to stand and a booted foot connected solidly with his chest. He felt pain blossoming from the point of impact and collapsed breathlessly to the floor. The fire wavered in front of him, his vision blurring. One of the men walked to the fireplace now, withdrawing a poker from the iron stand. Fenris watched him thrust it into the flames, an evil laughter permeating the room.

_'Think he'd like it up the arse? Heard this one's a little pervert.'_

_'Let's test it out.'_

The iron became hot much too fast, burning bright red as it was removed, and Fenris trembled, listening to the sounds of laughing and taunting. He struggled, gauntleted hands with their cold metal gripping his backside, pulling him apart. He waited for the agonizing burning pain, but suddenly woke, a wave of nausea overcoming him.

"Anders," he gasped, sitting up.

Anders was still asleep next to him, limbs twitching in his sleep. Fenris glanced across the fire pit, which had nearly burned itself out. Cousland and Zevran were gone, and he spared them only a passing thought before turning back to Anders, gripping his shoulders and shaking him.

"Wake up!"

Anders moaned in his sleep, lips parting, brow furrowed. The feeling of distress was palpable. Fenris shook him again harder, but it seemed that the nightmare held Anders firmly in its grasp. He pulled Anders up and smacked him soundly across the face, relieved when honey-hued eyes opened in surprise, Anders' own hand coming up to touch his cheek.

"Fenris?"

"Are you all right?" Fenris asked, kneeling now, still gripping his shoulders, peering worriedly at him.

"Where…"

"You were having a nightmare. I would apologize for waking you-"

Anders' shoulders shook and he brought the heels of his palms to his eyes, pressing hard. The embrace felt natural, Fenris pulling him close and holding him tightly. The need to offer comfort the only thing on his mind, Fenris pressed his lips to the top of Anders' head. Before joining the Crusaders, he'd never done this for anyone. The feeling of closeness, the need to comfort and protect had been completely foreign to him, and yet now it felt natural. Anders gripped his tunic with one hand, his forehead pressed to Fenris's chest.

"There's something strange in these mountains," Anders whispered. "I haven't dreamt about Kinloch in…"

"Was the dream accurate?" Fenris asked before he could stop himself. Of course Anders wouldn't want to admit to something like that, humiliating and shameful as it was. "Never mind," he added quickly.

"I'm sorry I pulled you into it," Anders said, looking up.

Fenris settled next to him, pushing blond locks of hair from his face. "Don't."

Anders smiled weakly.

"I could not say if it was the enchantment or something else," Fenris said carefully. "It angers me to feel you in distress."

Anders let out a shaky laugh, shifting closer to him, pulling the blanket around himself. He rested his head on Fenris's shoulder. "The first night I met you, I never would have thought I would feel the same way. You were an arrogant new recruit."

"Mm." Fenris recalled the fight with his fellow Crusader, putting his fist into the man's chest. An impulsive decision for sure. He thought it would be a punishment, being assigned this mage on what had initially seemed a dull task. Now, preoccupied though he was with his own concerns of Danarius's movements, he realized he'd stumbled into something much bigger. There was no way Cousland could have anticipated running into that dragon, or the mysteriousness of it all.

As if thinking about the man summoned him from wherever he'd gone, Cousland's voice floated up the trail. He was carrying a dripping wet sack with Zevran at his heels, two rabbits strung on a line. Fenris's stomach growled expectantly, and Anders pulled away from him, yawning widely. Judging from the sunlight, it was just after noon.

"You're awake," Cousland said, smirking as he settled down. "Everything all right?"

Fenris watched him open the sack, revealing several fish. He sighed resignedly and instead took up one of the rabbits, pulling out a knife to start skinning it.

"Just a bad dream," Anders said, dragging their cook pot out and settling it onto the fire. He cast a small ice spell, then used a bit of fire magic to melt it slowly. "Will we reach the road soon?"

"Another day or two," Cousland said apologetically.

They prepped and cooked the rest of the meal in silence and were on their way after that, Fenris as eager as any of them to get off the mountain. It was, as Cousland said, another few days before they reached the Imperial Highway. The road was familiar to him; they'd taken the path to Redcliffe, heading south. As they made the journey back to the Bannorn, they spoke little about what happened, though Fenris was sure they likely has as many questions as he did.

What did the dragon know that they didn't? Why did it, tasked with keeping the ashes safe, so easily and gratefully hand them over to Cousland? What exactly was the wraith creature that attacked them, and who summoned it? And what could possibly be worse than darkspawn? Ferelden couldn't contend with another attack so soon, and getting back to give their reports was paramount. Not that they had much information to give. And what did Cousland need the ashes for that he had been so evasive about? Zevran seemed to know, but whenever the topic veered toward the too serious, he tended to shut down or change the subject entirely.

Trying to keep all this new information straight made his head ache. And then of course there was the ever evolving relationship with Anders he had to contend with. In such a short time, he'd gone from nearly loathing him to feeling anxious and sick at the thought of not having him near. That kind of codependency was frustrating and frightening. He'd felt similarly toward Danarius before he knew better. Of course there was the resentment he had toward his former master. But he was akin to a kicked dog, always returning to his side, without complaint, with his tail between his legs. He always vowed to do better, to make his master proud of him. He was too scared to leave, but at the same time, praise from Danarius was better than anything he'd ever felt.

He knew the hand on his shoulder was coming before it reached its destination. His feelings must've been projecting through their bond. To have someone to share this burden was absurd; it was his own rat's nest of complicated emotions to sort out. Unfortunately he'd never been very good at figuring out what he wanted. Had he stayed with the Fog Warriors, perhaps he would have had a chance, but all his life it had been nothing but his master's wants and desires. After he ran, his only thought was survival. Food and shelter and hiding from the hunters.

"You're thinking awfully hard about something," Anders said quietly.

Fenris let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Contemplating our arrival."

"Shouldn't be more than two or three days now," Anders said, gesturing to Lake Calenhad. "Would be faster if we had a boat, but…" He shrugged a little. "Greagoir doesn't require written reports usually. If he asks, though, I'll help."

Fenris wanted to snap back at him for that. A reminder of his fledgling literacy was a reminder of his life in Tevinter. But Anders was like Karl. He'd been helping him with his reading and writing without turning it into an ordeal. He'd even started reading the book Dagna gave him with help from Anders. Their current traveling situation wasn't very conducive to his understanding of the text, though, as Cousland or Zevran were often just out of earshot and able to return at any time. Fenris thought they would have more tact than to comment on it, but all the same it was embarrassing to him. Anders understood without him having to explain it, and promised he'd help him when the returned to the Circle.

He nodded in acknowledgment, and the hand on his shoulder slid down his arm, gently squeezing his wrist before letting go. Fenris anticipated their return, wondering if he would be given a private room now to share with Anders. He wasn't sure how he felt at the prospect of returning to a dormitory style room after sharing space with his mage over the last two weeks. Was the cuff becoming a weakness? He touched the cool silver before fiddling with it. Perhaps Hawke could answer a few questions for him. Then he remembered that Hawke had likely left for Denerim with the others. Aside from Dagna, he hadn't had the opportunity to truly make any friends before he was off on assignment. He would have to ask Karl, though he wasn't sure if the mage had ever been paired with a Crusader, and suddenly felt slightly guilty at never having asked him more about himself.

Anders looked sidelong at him, eyebrow raised. "Mm?"

"Just thinking that it would be pleasant to have a thought or two to myself without being constantly questioned about it," Fenris ground out. His irritation wasn't with Anders, but rather with his own confusion and feeling thoroughly unprepared. "Just leave me be." He didn't wait for a response, shifting his pack and hurrying forward past Cousland and Zevran.

"They really should find a quiet spot to rid themselves of that pent up sexual tension," he heard Zevran say.

Fenris didn't hear Cousland's response, choosing instead to push forward, ignoring the hurt feelings welling in his chest that he knew didn't belong to him.

-

Anders sighed as he paid the innkeeper at the Spoiled Princess. As much as he hated returning to it, so close to Kinloch Hold, it was better than sleeping on the ground for another night before returning to the Circle. Luckily the inn never saw many travelers and two rooms were empty. He deigned to take the same room he and Fenris had slept in on their way out, and wondered if the linens had even been washed. Back aching and sore, he dropped his things at the foot of the bed and started undressing.

It was late, already past midnight by the time they came upon the inn. Though the holdfast that housed the Church's Circle was only a few more hours away, he preferred to be well-rested before they returned, knowing Irving would demand a status update immediately. He was predictable that way. And he would see Karl again, who'd want to know how things went with Fenris. A day or two ago Anders would have thanked him for his shrewd decision making. Now, though? 

He glanced over at Fenris, who was already undressed to his slim black leggings and billowing tunic. They hadn't spoken much in the last forty-eight hours. He wanted to ask what was wrong, but the pulsing he felt across their link told him it likely wasn't a good idea. Something was bothering Fenris, and he couldn't tell if it was something to do with the mission or perhaps Zevran – he had gotten under Fenris's skin from the off – or something even that he, Anders, had done.

_If he wants to sulk, let him,_ Anders thought viciously, tugging his shirt off. He threw it in the corner and washed his hands and face, wishing for the luxurious tubs of Redcliffe castle, or even the shallow one at the inn there. The Spoiled Princess had no such amenities. At least at the holdfast he could take advantage of the sunken stone pools they'd built to accommodate their order. With that to look forward to, he slid into bed, turning toward the wall. Above him the pillow shifted and Ser Pounce-a-lot curled against his head, purring quietly.

Fifteen minutes later – and Anders knew because he was counting the seconds – he still couldn't sleep. The irritation, this gap between them, made it impossible to relax. He rolled over and couldn't help the smirk that came with seeing Fenris lying wide awake across from him. Fenris's lips pursed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing.

_Serves you right!_ he thought triumphantly.

He slid back toward the wall and lifted the covers, gesturing with his head. Fenris huffed and closed his eyes, trying to ignore him. Anders pressed through their bond, knowing already how to manipulate it. Justice had been irritated when he did so, but Anders often got his way. Green eyes snapped open, glaring at him. Anders nodded again to the empty space beside him. Fenris let out a deep breath, blowing his bangs up and out of his face. He glanced up at the ceiling, tucking a hand under his head. Anders patted the bed next to him, continuing their silent argument. He counted slowly to himself, and before he hit thirty, Fenris was sliding out of bed.

_Hah!_

The bed was narrow, nearly too small for both of them, but Fenris was slight, as befitting his race. Anders knew the strength he possessed, watching him heave the two-handed greatsword like it was a butter knife. He wondered if the lyrium markings helped, or if it was simply raw power borne from years of training. Lowering the blanket, he inhaled, eyes closing as he rested his chin on soft, white hair. Fenris smelled of sweat and dirt and elfroot. He couldn't imagine that he smelled any better, though.

"Do you want to ta-"

"No."

Anders sighed, wrapping his arms around the slim form, one hand moving beneath the threadbare tunic to rub his back gently. Karl had done this for him; it calmed him down, especially after Justice died. They would lay for hours together, not speaking, just giving and drawing comfort.

"It would be easier to help if you told me what was wrong."

Fenris was quiet, but his eyes were open, Anders could see. He watched his chest rise and fall, listening as he took a shuddering breath. A small noise escaped his lips as if he started to say something and thought better of it. Then he began again, his voice low and rumbling.

"It is several things. I cannot help but drawn comparisons to our… Hm." He huffed again, thinking. "A comparison between our relationship, and myself and my former master."

Anders winced. Though the statement hadn't been said in anger, and Fenris for once wasn't blaming him for the magisters of Tevinter, the implication stung. He held back the diatribe he wanted to let loose. "I remind you of him?" Fenris had mentioned him by name, but he hesitated to say it, or his tone would change after. After nearly two days of little communication between them, Anders was careful not to say anything that might set the prickly elf off once more.

"Not exactly." Fenris took another breath, as if gearing himself up to say something. A swirl of complex feelings passed through their bond, like tendrils of smoke in his chest, curling around Anders' heart, he felt it. "I did not always feel contempt for Danarius."

Anders didn't understand. A man who kept another as a slave, there was little else he could think of that was so reprehensible. He hated the Chantry's templars for that reason among many others. Not that the Chantry's mages were slaves, more akin to prisoners. Still… "I don't understand." It was best not to get angry on Fenris's behalf, not now. No matter how much he wanted to.

"It's complicated. I… wasn't always… didn't always hate him. I was his bodyguard. I would keep him safe. I was his… prize. A gladiator for him in the Provings in Minrathous."

Anders thought as Fenris spoke of his life with Danarius, how his master used to read to him at night when he was young, a tradition they kept up for quite some time. The affection that Danarius held for him and vice versa. It sounded like a perverse father-son relationship. "Were you…" Anders frowned, wondering if the question on the tip of his tongue was too personal. Then again, they'd shared each other's dreams. Fenris had seen him with the templars, knew about the scars on his back. "Were you intimate?"

A sob or a bark of laughter, Anders couldn't tell what, and Fenris's hands curled into fists against his chest. When he spoke, his voice was even. "Yes."

"Oh."

"I… thought I enjoyed it. All of it. And then he left me on Seheron. I never thought I'd see him again."

Anders remembered the conversation they'd had in this very room at the beginning of their journey. He didn't need to imagine the fear of being left alone in a strange place. He had his own memories of being ripped away from his home to provide him that. "But you ran from him when he came for you. Clearly you knew better. You didn't go back. You didn't want to."

"Mm. It's true." Fenris sighed, fingers unfurling, palms flat against Anders' bare chest. "And yet. I find myself in the company of another mage. Playing bodyguard again."

_And there's no denying our relationship is… intimate._ Anders pushed the thought from his head. It wouldn't be prudent to point that out right now. Though he was fairly sure the feelings he had for Fenris were platonic, he had to admit that their bond had coalesced frighteningly quickly. With Justice it had taken less time than most of the mage-Crusader pairings that weren't blood related. Irving speculated it was due to the nature of Justice himself, being a spirit bound to a mortal body. But it had still taken more time than with Fenris. Perhaps there was something to the lyrium lines that caused the enchantment to work faster than normal.

"But I won't leave you behind. No matter how irritating you are," Anders added.

Fenris looked up at him incredulously. "More likely I would leave due to _you_ being an irritant," he shot back.

"Me? Never," Anders protested innocently. He winked.

Fenris rolled his eyes but a quirk of a smile caught his lips. Anders felt his hands warm against his chest, and drew his own fingers up over Fenris's side to rest on his hip. Beneath the blanket, a bare foot brushed his shin. In the silence that stretched between them, something shifted. Or perhaps it was simply their proximity. Anders felt his heart speed up, and hoped in vain that Fenris wouldn't feel it. He wanted to kiss him. Curiosity, maybe. It was a bad idea to get involved. Not that mage-Crusader marriages were unheard of. It happened all the time. But what if it didn't work out? What if Fenris decided he wanted to be reassigned? And he'd been invited to warm the bed with their companions and declined. No, this was simply his overactive imagination and libido both hard at work. When Fenris parted his lips to say something, Anders was hard pressed not to lean forward impulsively.

"I think-"

A thud and a moan from behind the wall stopped him mid-sentence. There was a laugh and another moan, and then, heavily accented, "Mio dio!"

Anders saw the blush rise in Fenris's cheeks. "It's a wonder the Grey Wardens get any work done when Zevran's at the Vigil," he remarked, deciding not to point out Fenris's embarrassment. "We should sleep. If you turn-"

Fenris shifted, turning toward his other side, moving back against him. Anders kept his arm wrapped tightly around him, the other tucked under the pillow, careful not to displace Ser Pounce-a-lot, who'd slept through the entire conversation and overt sexual sounds from their neighbors. Fenris pulled the blanket up and settled with a contented sigh.

"Mage?"

"Hm?" Anders asked, yawning.

"I am… glad."

"For what?"

"That you don't plan to leave."

A hand found its way under Anders', fingers entwining. He smiled, but said nothing. Fenris was a friend, and a damn good fighter. He was lucky to have him as a Crusader. He might never live up to Justice, but the spirit warrior had set a nigh unobtainable standard. Anders had him on a pedestal for a very long time, after all. But, he thought as he drifted off to sleep, Fenris might end up a very close second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for the support so far regarding real life stress. We're actually in the middle of buying a house, so a lot of time, energy and effort is going into that. This should all be over in the next 2-4 weeks so I'll have more time to write and more time to update.
> 
> I also got into the Dragon Age Keep beta, so I'll be spending time there too.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with! :)


	16. Chapter 16

Greagoir did not demand a written report. He sat with Irving, listening as Anders and Fenris took turns recalling their travels, Karl sitting slightly off to the side, taking notes. When they spoke of the wraith-like creature in Haven, Irving straightened, a frown creasing his weathered face.

"A manifestation of anger?" he postured.

Anders swallowed thickly and nodded. "It felt like a rage demon but much worse than that. It was… evil."

Fenris was suddenly glad that he hadn't been able to feel it the way Anders had. Irving exchanged a look with Greagoir, who was also frowning. They seemed to be communicating without words. Irving's long fingers tapped on the desktop, and Greagoir folded his arms. In unison, they looked at Karl, who glanced up expectantly.

"It's nothing I've heard of," Karl admitted, anticipating the unasked question. "I'll write to the Circle in Orlais. A few of my contacts may have an answer."

"Anders," Irving said, turning back to him, "I want you to give Karl a full report on it, any insight you might have that would be helpful. Orsino might have answers as well – send a missive to Kirkwall."

Anders inclined his head slightly, though Fenris felt a smattering of annoyance through their link. He made a note to ask him about that once they finished.

"Now as to the second part of your report," Irving said. "A shapeshifter?"

Fenris answered. "He claimed to be a dragon called Vovanis. He may have been an apostate shapeshifter. Though he spoken Ancient Tevene and used a certain spell…" Instinctively he put his fingertips to his throat, remembering. "I was able to understand him and speak with him after."

Karl let out a noise of surprise. "That's a highly unusual spell. I've only ever heard of it being utilized by the College during its assemblies."

Irving looked back to Fenris. "And he gave the Warden-Commander the Urn?"

"Yes. He said…" Fenris paused, remembering the words, and recited them in Tevene before repeating in the trade tongue.

"Grey Wardens haven't ridden on griffons in centuries," Greagoir scoffed.

"Yes. Either the dragon – if he was a dragon," Irving added, "was being metaphorical or the last time it was aware of its surroundings, it was over two hundred years ago."

A hush fell over the room as the occupants contemplated the implications of the latter. Fenris knew Thedas held many secrets. The Old Gods themselves were ancient, and proof of them existed. The idea that a shapeshifting dragon lasting two or more centuries wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. Suddenly he felt somewhat foolish. Should they've asked him more questions? Asked him to come along with them? Would he have consented?

As if reading his thoughts, Karl spoke. "You did everything you could. The both of you. But the question remains – why did the Warden-Commander need the ashes?"

"He said it was for Grey Warden recruits," Anders provided. "I doubt you'll get much more out of them than that. You how secretive they are."

"The Warden-Commander and his companion are staying the night before returning to Amaranthine," Greagoir said. "From there he stated he would return and has requested a few of us to head south with several other Wardens."

"South," Anders repeated. "Ostagar?"

"Should be cleared enough of darkspawn," Greagoir said, shuffling papers. "We need to salvage all the armor and weapons we can. We can spare a half dozen pairs to attend the Wardens."

"Either you can wait for him to return," Irving said, clearing his throat, taking one of the papers from the stack Greagoir was manhandling, "or you can go to Denerim with the next company in two days. We'll need your answer tomorrow morning once you've discussed it."

Fenris held his tongue. He didn't want to speak for Anders, but he hoped he would be able to convince him to go to Denerim. He had no desire to pick through a battlefield, looting the dead and avoiding the tainted ground. Denerim held more opportunities. He wanted to see the city. 

_And Bethany is there._

He pursed his lips, almost as if the traitorous thought had escaped and announced itself to the room. Anders looked at him, likely sensing his embarrassment. Fenris shook his head and looked down.

"Well, I think that's all," Greagoir said, looking to Irving, then to Karl. "Unless either of you have anything to add?"

"There is one more thing," Irving said, looking at Fenris before allowing his gaze to slide to Anders. "Your partnership. How is it faring?"

Fenris glanced to Karl, whose lips curled into a smile, his eyes fixed on Anders. Anders shifted, then folded his arms. Fenris cleared his throat, the silence stretching.

"It's acceptable," Fenris said at last.

"Yes," Anders agreed.

An odd pulse of… annoyance? flitted across their bond. Fenris inhaled sharply to cover his discomfort. Why would Anders be annoyed? Had he been off the mark when he called their bond acceptable? Of course, he was starting to think that the word wasn't quite adequate enough. With all the time they'd spent together, the idea of separating himself from Anders was unbearable. He found their bond mutually beneficial and thought Anders had as well. It seemed they needed to have a talk, away from the three men currently scrutinizing them.

"Dismissed then," Greagoir said. "We'll await your decision in the morning."

Fenris bowed ever so slightly, but Anders simply turned, took up his things and left, leaving Fenris to hurry after him. He kept pace with Anders, who took awfully long strides. Once they reached the top of the stairs, Anders paused, leaning against the wall and took a breath.

"Care to explain, mage?"

Anders straightened, pulling Ser Pounce-a-lot from his pack. He cuddled the cat close. "'Acceptable'?"

" _Venhedis._ " Leave it to Anders to take his statement in the worst possible way. "I simply meant that the choice to pair us was satisfactory."

His expression didn't change, and the annoyance increased. "Any other words you have? What about 'tolerable'? Or am I not even that?"

Before Anders could walk away from him, Fenris grabbed him by the arms, pinning him back against the wall. "You are irritating," he snarled. "You are frustrating and you misinterpret my words, sometimes on purpose, I believe, and your mood swings are completely absurd!"

"'Acceptable'," Anders whispered.

Ser Pounce-a-lot gave a mewl as Anders squeezed him a bit too hard. He let him go and the cat raced off down the hall.

Fenris scowled. "There is no one else I'd rather continue to be paired with, despite it all. You singularly annoying, vexatious, complicated-"

"Charming. Handsome. Witty," Anders continued, grinning now.

Fenris swore again and released him. "That remains to be seen."

Anders straightened his coat before reaching out, smoothing Fenris's tunic down. "You should get your things. Then I think we both need a bath. You don't exactly smell like roses."

A bath sounded wonderful. The snow on the road leading from the Spoiled Princess back to the Bannorn had melted somewhat, mixing with the dirt. Their clothing was covered in slush and mud and despite Anders' healing magic, he remained sore and tired from travel and battle. They'd parted ways with Cousland and Zevran after the two spoke with Greagoir briefly, and Fenris hoped not to see them for some time. Cousland was amiable, but Zevran… He stopped that train of thought.

"Am I to room with you then?"

Anders nodded resolutely. "I have to… I need… Justice's things need to be moved," he said finally.

Fenris frowned. "Are you sure it's… we can ask Greagoir for another room if…"

"No. I'll move his things. Give me some time."

Anders didn't need to finish his sentence for Fenris to hear the unspoken, _to say goodbye_ that lingered. Fenris reached up, gripping Anders' arm again, though to offer comfort. Anders smiled half-heartedly.

"Half an hour," he said, and started down the hall.

Fenris watched him turn the corner, and felt him moving away. There was a curious ache in his chest and he lifted a hand, massaging gently, as if that would rid him of it. "Ridiculous," he muttered, and took the stairs up to his room. Thankfully it was empty, and he was able to pack his meager belongings in peace. He would not miss it.

Looking forward to a hot bath and a decent mattress, he walked toward the library first in order to give Anders the time he needed.

-

Anders hurried up to his room, slipping in and shutting the door behind him. He leaned back, letting his head drop against the wood. What was he thinking? He'd been hurt when Fenris called their pairing 'acceptable' and let it get the best of him. Of course it hadn't been meant as an insult, but Maker it certainly felt that way at the time. More likely Fenris simply didn't want to wax poetic about how close they'd grown in such a short amount of time. He didn't seem like the type of person to revel in such a relationship. And there was no doubt that Fenris felt as strongly.

To share so much with someone so quickly, to feel what they felt only a mere few days after the enchantments were placed, it was overwhelming. He took a few deep steadying breaths, his hand reaching up to touch the silver hoop in his ear. It was warm and heavy and felt nothing like the amulet and arm cuff he wore. He touched the necklace. Justice's necklace. Anders remembered him adjusting it several times through their travels, but he'd never taken it off. And Anders never removed his arm cuff.

"Maker," he breathed, covering his face. He dragged his fingertips down over his cheeks and sighed.

Could he handle Fenris in here? Living in the space that belonged to Justice? Fenris wasn't anything like him. Justice saw the oppression of his fellow mages. They spoke long into the night about advancing the Church further, about implementing a citizens' village for mages where they could live outside the Circle, without Crusaders, with just their families. They wouldn't be beholden unto any military organizations. The Church's Circle, though a far cry from the Chantry's, still wasn't a good enough solution. It was no place to raise a family. And while Anders felt he was doing some good in the world, he was a healer and no stranger to battle magic. He was needed here with them, he had a purpose.

But what about the mages that came to them who could do no more than a bit of elemental magic? Were they destined to spend the rest of their lives in the Circle because they weren't powerful enough to be assigned a Crusader and go fight the ills of Thedas? What if they wanted a family? It wasn't as if they could travel outside the gates without a chaperone to have a normal life. To meet a man or woman and have children and raise goats or whatever it was they wanted. Justice agreed with him. But Fenris? Fenris would argue.

"Mages are _not_ dangerous," he said definitively to the empty room.

He opened the armoire that housed Justice's clothing and slowly started to pull out tunics and trousers. He folded every article, packing it away in the trunk at the foot of the bed. Where would he put it? There was no space in the small room for it along with one that would hold Fenris's things. He pulled it from its spot, drumming his fingertips atop it while he thought. Perhaps Karl would have an idea. Or he could have it brought to Denerim to be stored somewhere in the castle. Somewhere it could have a place of honor.

The armoire empty, he undressed to trousers and his shirt, scrounging for a clean outfit and a towel. The sunken baths were nearly always ready for occupants, heated consistently by several magical enchantments. He hoped it wouldn't take Fenris too long to settle in before they could wash the road from themselves.

-

Fenris tossed his things in an alcove near Anders' room before heading to the library. Anders had said half an hour, and he was going to make good use of the time. The holdfast was quiet, the Crusaders and mages likely in training. They'd arrived shortly after lunch and the debriefing took some time what with Karl taking copious notes. Fenris appreciated the thoroughness, but having time alone now was actually quite nice. He felt a warm surge through his link with Anders, both calming and reassuring. The next few feelings that passed were a little troubling. Uncertainty? He thought it was normal. After all, Anders was packing away Justice's things. It must've been difficult. Almost unconsciously he brushed his fingertips over the cuff, letting the mage feel his presence, palpable but not intruding.

Determined to give Anders his time alone, Fenris now did his best to keep his own emotions shielded, and settled at a table, pulling out the book on magic that Dagna had given him. He marked the place where he'd left off last with Anders, and started sounding out the words silently, lips moving as he dragged a finger along the letters.

"At this rate I'll have a whole paragraph read before I have to go up," he muttered, sighing.

A sudden noise behind him and he turned at once, tense and coiled, ready to defend himself before he remembered he was in the Circle's library. There were no wild, Blighted wolves or bears or dragons to attack him here. In fact, what had made the noise was one of the least threatening presences he'd ever come across.

"Dagna," he breathed in relief.

She grinned at him, holding two cups of tea, gesturing. He pulled out the chair next to him and she sat happily, sliding a cup and saucer over. "You're back! I only just heard from another recruit. 'The elf with the funny markings.' Oh, I set him right," she said quickly. "How was it? I received your letter, by the way! Did you like Redcliffe? I've been there once. It's really nice, the lake and all. That was before it was attacked though," she added, taking a sip of her tea.

Fenris took the opportunity to interject. Dagna's enthusiasm was only outmatched by her genuine kindness. "We stopped there to speak with Bann Teagan." Irving had taken a few minutes to confirm the information in the letter that Anders had sent along with Carver and Jowan. What he was going to do with it, Fenris didn't know, nor did he ask. "It was pleasant enough. Then we met the Warden-Commander."

He recounted his travels to Honnleath while Dagna listened intently, sipping her tea and asking questions. It was extremely pleasant, he thought. Danarius never gave him his undivided attention, and when he did, it usually was for something unsavory. She nodded in enthusiasm, pressed him for more details. In all, she was a very good audience, and he relaxed despite himself.

"We're to decide if we're heading south to Ostagar or to Denerim," he said, finishing his tea. He wanted to ask if Irving and Greagoir had decided yet to assign her a mage, but decided that Dagna would have been bubbling over with enthusiasm to tell him so.

"There've been more rumors about the king getting married," she said in a rush. "If you went to Denerim, maybe you could write and let us know. Oh! Maybe they'll let you attend the ceremony."

Fenris cleared his throat. It was nothing to him if the king married, but apparently Ferelden thought highly of the man who helped bring down the archdemon. "Bann Teagan mentioned that Empress… The Orlesian Empress," he tried.

"Empress Celene," Dagna provided.

"Indeed. She's either heading to Denerim or already on her way to express her condolences regarding the state of the country. Anders believes that solidifies it."

Dagna grinned. "Oh I wish I could see it! The palace with all its decorations and a royal wedding!"

Fenris snorted. "I doubt it will be more than an ostentatious display of power and wealth with hours of standing around and nothing to do." Despite that, Fenris couldn't help but be a little anxious. He had formal training to attend to the upper echelons of Tevinter society. But how well did that translate to Ferelden nobility? He thought Anders would keep him from blundering into a social faux pas. "But I would prefer it to Ostagar."

"Did you like the book?" she asked, changing subjects abruptly and gesturing to the tome on the desk.

"It's… a dense read," Fenris admitted. The book of fairy tales that Karl gave him, if a bit juvenile, were easy to understand and somewhat enjoyable. They made for good practice, at any rate.

"Oh."

"I appreciate it, though," he added, hating how her lips curved into a frown. "It is not… I am not very well read." It wasn't a lie. At the very least, he hoped she'd understand it had nothing to do with her own personal choices.

"Oh just wait until you get to the part where he talks about how everyone has the potential to wield magic! I found that section just fascinating. It angered a _lot_ of people. But even the abilities that we're trained for are based in some type of magic. Enchantments augmented by lyrium. Smites and silences."

Fenris did feel his markings react more strongly when he used one of his Crusader techniques. He wondered if he would be able to strengthen them enough to drain Danarius of all his mana should he ever leave his estate in Minrathous. To see the look on the magister's face when he couldn't cast a spell, it would be worth every humiliation he'd ever suffered under the man's thumb. He idly tapped the book's pages. "What about blood magic?"

Dagna tilted her head questioningly. "I don't understand."

"Our abilities that they teach us, if we're strong enough we can drain a mage of his mana. But what about blood magic? Are they able to cast from that power? Can they use their own – or another's – to augment the loss?"

She drew her lower lip into her mouth, chewing it a moment as she thought. "It was never brought up in that book. I think that it's such a taboo subject that no one really wants to talk about it. Or think about what could happen."

Fenris shook his head. "Foolish. Any mage who's cornered will use everything in their arsenal."

"As would anyone," Dagna said.

He held his tongue a moment, realizing her words were an agreement, not a challenge. In a way, he was a bit disappointed. He'd grown used to having Anders snap back at him any time he expressed his opinion of mages overall. It was liberating in a way to speak his mind and not experience any physical pain as a result of it. Danarius always ensured he kept his mouth shut. And if anything, Hadriana was worse. With her, sometimes even staying silent meant punishment.

"Maybe this needs to be researched further," she continued thoughtfully. "I'll have to talk to the First Enchanter about it. Anyone who looks into blood magic without having it cleared first, well… Even though I _am_ a dwarf it might look a little suspicious." She grinned.

Fenris's lips quirked into a meek smile. "Would you share your findings with me?" Having someone researching further on how to properly cripple a blood mage would be extremely advantageous to him. If Danarius ever came, he would have at least half a chance in defeating him.

_And you could keep Anders safe._

A wave of confusion, questioning, came across their bond. Fenris realized he'd been projecting his protective feelings.

"Are you all right?" Dagna asked.

Fenris shut the book and stood. "Fine. I told Anders I would meet him. I'm to settle in my things and we need to discuss our next mission. Will you be all right?"

"Oh. Yes! Of course," she said, taking up the empty teacups. "See you at breakfast tomorrow?"

"Sooner. The training room at dawn?" he suggested. "We can continue with your bow. And if Anders consents, you may have a mage to spar with as well."

Her grin was infectious, and she looked as if she wanted to fling her arms around him in excitement. He chuckled and leaned down, kissing her forehead before heading out.

"Tomorrow then!" she called out.

He waved back with his free hand and left, stopping to gather his things before continuing toward his new room. The door was ajar and he found Anders sitting on his bed, absently stroking Ser Pounce-a-lot, a bundle of clothing next to him. He looked up when Fenris entered and a corner of his mouth curled into a half-smile.

Fenris nodded to him. "Are you well?"

"As can be expected," Anders said, his voice strained. "You can use half the armoire and I'll ask Irving about a trunk for storage."

Fenris eyed the trunk that sat against the wall, but said nothing, surmising that Justice's things must be there. He dropped his armor and pack onto the bed and began to strip to tunic and trousers. Anders mentioned the baths, and was eager to wash before finding a proper supper. They were silent as they walked down together, a narrow staircase leading to a low-ceilinged, wide cellar that held dozens of crates of supplies. Fenris supposed it took a lot to keep the Crusaders and mages in the holdfast fed properly.

"Here," Anders said, digging into one. He tossed a red apple to Fenris, who caught it. "Might be a bit mealy but that's the season."

Fenris took a bite. It was still juicy and quite delicious. He followed Anders to the next room which looked like it had been an extension of the cellar, or perhaps used to hold barrels of wine. Now in the center of the room sat one large sunken stone tub that looked like it could easily hold a dozen or more fully grown men. Around the perimeter were hooks with towels and robes, freshly laundered. Anders tossed his things at the edge of the tub, stripped, and stepped in. Fenris, clutching the apple and his own bundle of clean clothing, hesitated.

"It's warm," Anders offered.

Fenris set his things down, carefully balancing the apple at the edge. He undressed quickly and sank down into the blissfully hot water, steam rising from the surface now. Anders sighed, leaning back, his head resting against a folded towel. This was much different than attending the baths with Danarius, and Fenris allowed himself to relax.

"So, Denerim or Ostagar?" Anders asked, reaching for a washcloth and soap.

"I've no desire to scavenge the dead," Fenris said, closing his eyes and sinking down so the water covered his shoulders.

Anders took up a washcloth and a bar of soap, eyes on Fenris as he slid under the water to wet his hair. Eyes still closed, he slicked back the white locks and leaned against the side of the tub, looking utterly at peace. The room was a bit too dark for Anders to see beneath the surface of the water, the angle making it difficult as well. He caught himself staring, shaking his head as if to shove away the errant thoughts that threatened to creep into his mind. Determinedly he started to scrub his arms and legs. The water shimmered and shifted.

"What is that?" Fenris asked, opening his eyes and sitting up as the water began to whirlpool slowly.

"An enchantment. Something the dwarves came up with to keep the water filtered," Anders said, passing him the cloth and soap.

Fenris took both, lathered, and washed himself as he watched the water ripple. "In Tevinter, they have magical stones that create a bubbling in the baths."

"Not something you were allowed to partake of, I assume," Anders said lightly. He shifted to his knees and took the cloth back from Fenris, soaping his chest.

Fenris's eyes flicked over his skin, quickly assessing the scars on Anders' front. "No. I attended my master when he discussed business with the other senators."

"Public baths. I've heard of them. They're big in Antiva as well. But more for the pleasure houses than for business. I take it your former master never indulged with the other senators." Anders quirked an eyebrow, teasing.

Fenris chuckled. "No, he did not. Such a thing wasn't widely accepted in the Imperium. Indulging with a slave, though…"

"Mm. Let me get your back." Anders had asked impulsively, and fought against the sudden surge of anticipation as Fenris turned around. They were companions, a team. It was normal to do things like this for the other. After all, how often had he helped Justice clean up after a fight? His fleeting crush notwithstanding, Anders' feelings had grown into a fierce respect for him. This spark of attraction that reared its ugly head would fade as well.

Fenris leaned forward, hair falling into his face, wet locks dripping. He leaned into the touch as Anders began to wash him off. He was fully capable of doing it himself, and fought against the urge to flee. Danarius had done this for him on occasion, together in the bath. He would kiss his shoulders, whisper terms of endearment. His fists clenched and he gritted his teeth, trying to diffuse the memories.

"What is it?" Anders asked. "You tensed. Did I hurt you?"

"No. Memories I've wish to no longer revisit that insist upon surfacing."

Anders stilled in his movements. "You're thinking about him. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

Fenris reached back, taking his hand and gripped tightly. "You are not him. It's fine."

"It's not fine," Anders corrected. "What happened to you was the furthest thing from fine." He felt Fenris's shoulders start to tremble slightly, and pulled his hand free to massage them. "Maker, Fenris, you're nothing but knots."

Fenris winced as Anders dug into muscle, markings lighting as he felt the familiar tingling of healing magic seep into his skin. It burned slightly, fading into a dull ache that disappeared slowly.

"I was thinking that I would prefer Denerim," Anders said, picking up their earlier conversation and conveniently changing the subject. "Hawke and Bethany are there, and it does sound more appealing than possibly tangling with leftover darkspawn. I've always liked the city. Easy to get lost in."

"Minrathous was bustling," Fenris said, grunting as Anders worked a difficult knot. He hissed at a burst of healing magic that caused a tingling pain to flare along with the lyrium.

"Sorry," Anders said quickly. "Lean forward a bit more." And when Fenris did, he moved down his back, thumbs sliding slickly over skin, along his spine. He frowned at the scars, tracing them with a finger, but didn't ask. Instead, he concentrated on the sore muscles, feeling a flush of arousal as Fenris groaned. He thanked the Maker that Fenris had his knees up, face down. He couldn't see him, the slight hardening of his cock.

_Completely natural response,_ he told himself. Close proximity and suggestive noises. It didn't have to mean anything else.

"Denerim's a bit of a mess," Anders said, pleased when his tone came out evenly. "But once it's finished, I'm sure King Alistair will let us relocate there. You'll like it."

"Mm."

Anders stopped suddenly, Fenris looking up as well. Voices outside the door grew louder, and it flung wide revealing Cousland and Zevran, who were both shirtless and carrying bundles of linen. Anders felt the annoyance across their bond, saw Fenris curl up tightly, hiding himself.

"Oh!" Zevran said in mock surprise. "It appears we have interrupted something."

He leered at Fenris, and Anders instinctively moved in front of him. "It's fine. We were just leaving anyway."

Cousland shrugged. "We don't mind the company."

He stripped, and Anders let his gaze wander, eyeing the light brown hair on his chest, the darker trail at his navel, the cock that had been inside him. His memory provided him snapshots of that night, how he felt curled up with them after, sated and exhausted. It had been awhile, and as much as he enjoyed Karl's attentions when he could get them, Anders did prefer the strength and power of Cousland. He understood of course, what Zevran saw in him. But Cousland wasn't his, and entertaining that thought would only get him heartbroken.

Zevran followed suit and they stepped into the bath, Zevran moving immediately to straddle his thighs, kissing him soundly. Behind Anders the water shifted and splashed; Fenris climbed out of the bath and was hurriedly wrapping a towel around his waist. He felt a flush of arousal and embarrassment, and scrambled out after him.

"Fenris, wait!"

Zevran laughed. Anders heard Cousland shushing him as he grabbed up their things, following Fenris out the door.

"Fenris, wait! Maker's breath, just let me get some clothes on."

He banged into Fenris who stopped short, a bundle of clothing falling to the floor. Anders scowled as Fenris turned, glaring, two ruddy spots on his cheeks rising. The embarrassment pulsed between them, and Anders understood. He sent a wave of soothing through their link, and Fenris looked away. It wasn't the first time he'd lowered his eyes, head tilted slightly. It was awfully submissive and weak and didn't suit him at all. Impulsively, he reached out, cupping his chin and forced Fenris to look at him.

"Why does it bother you?" Fenris tried again to drop his eyes, but Anders kept him in place. "Tell me."

"Danarius," Fenris ground out. "Danarius made me attend to him during his activities. Before and after. I was made to wait in the room, kneeling. I do not mind the act," he said, yanking himself away from Anders's grip. "I just do not wish to be a part of it, nor do I wish to watch them together."

Anders felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, a poisonous bitterness that he tried to swallow. "I didn't know."

"It's not your fault. Or theirs. I simply… There is… It irritates me that they're…"

"Happy together?" Anders let out a mirthless laugh. "It seems like our upbringings haven't exactly prepared us for the healthiest of relationships. I understand."

"…Mage."

"Hm?"

"You should put some clothes on."

Anders picked up the clean pair of trousers from the ground, shaking them out before stepping into them. "Yes, well, that's your fault. Leaving so quickly." He handed Fenris's his own.

Without dropping the bathrobe, Fenris pulled them on. "I am…" He hesitated, the words hanging in the air between them.

Anders saved him the trouble. "I understand. Don't apologize. But… you know, Fenris…"

"Hm."

They finished dressing quickly, Anders balling up the laundry that needed washing and they started back up the stairs.

"You're free now. You could pursue a relationship with anyone you'd like."

Silence as they passed through the halls toward their room. Just when Anders opened his mouth to speak, Fenris spoke.

"I know. And I think perhaps there might… be someone. Possibly."

"Oh?" Anders asked, grinning. He nudged him. "Who?" He ignored the hopeful fluttering in his stomach. He still wasn't entirely sure if pursuing any relationship with Fenris – physical or otherwise – was a good idea. But if Fenris was interested, he wasn't sure he would turn him down, either. Irritating though the elf was at times, becoming acclimated to his feelings, growing closer with him every day, Anders couldn't help but think it would be akin to the opportunity he was denied with Justice.

Fenris scowled. "If I ever feel inclined to tell someone, I will write it in a journal."

"Touchy." Another scowl. "I'm kidding. I'll let it go."

"Good."

Still, Anders thought as they returned to their room, it would be nice if the one Fenris had in mind was him.


	17. Chapter 17

Fenris glanced up at the overcast sky, the darkened clouds heavy and threatening. He pulled his hood low over his eyes and looked down, a ginger tabby head poking up out of his cloak. Ser Pounce-a-lot decided he'd taken a liking to him, and curled in his pack for most of the trip to Denerim. The cart, with half a dozen mage-Crusader teams, was pulled by two large oxen, another team at the helm, driving them forward. The roads became more congested with people as they traveled east, the farm houses closer together. He felt the swirl of anxious anticipation, and smirked as Anders touched his hand.

Though he'd spent some time in the holdfast before leaving on their initial journey, Fenris had not taken the time to scrutinize the other teams. Much like Carver and Jowan, and Irving and Greagoir, they appeared to communicate without words. When they talked, it was never about anything of substance, crude jokes and wild anecdotes. It all felt very routine to Fenris, and he supposed this was more the norm for assignments than anything he and Anders had done in the previous days. It was both unnerving and at the same time reassuring. 

He entwined his fingers with Anders', finding the leather of their gloves restricting and slightly irritating. Normally he despised skin contact, but with Anders it had become a comfort. Anders knew these people, had become comfortable with them over the years. And when they reached Denerim in a few short hours, they would be surrounded by even more unfamiliar faces, court nobles and the like. He consoled himself with the knowledge that Hawke and Bethany would be there, and hoped that they could get started with their task right away.

"You're awfully introspective," Anders said, looking at him. He reached up with his free hand to scratch Ser Pounce-a-lot between the ears. "More than usual, I mean."

Fenris felt the cat purr against his chest. "Just wondering about Denerim. Our duty."

Anders sighed resignedly. "Moving chunks of stone out of the way, blasting them apart, dragging them to the masons and then bringing them back when they're proper bricks again. It's all extremely fascinating."

"Would you have preferred Ostagar?" Fenris challenged.

"Point," Anders acceded. "I do enjoy a proper bed with a warm fire. And it's been some time since I've been back to the city."

They fell into a companionable silence, Fenris keeping his eye on the slowly darkening sky, or observing the others. It was another several hours, the ride becoming smoother the closer they approached the city. Fenris shifted, begrudgingly releasing Anders' hand so he could turn to kneel on the bench they were sitting on to get a better look. Farmers and merchants, peasants, beggars, all crowded around the city gates. Their cart stopped in a long line of others, a large arch with a double portcullis up ahead with guards inspecting their wares.

"Extra security?" he asked Anders, who shrugged, turning now also to look.

Another Crusader – Haras, Fenris thought his name – spoke up. "Bet it's to do with that Orlesian bitch."

His mage promptly punched him in the shoulder.

Fenris looked at Anders, who raised an eyebrow before addressing Haras. "Do you think? If she's here already, it makes sense that they would be extra careful with who they're letting into the city."

Haras grunted. He was an older man, perhaps mid-fifties, though it was hard for Fenris to tell with humans. "She should go back to Orlais. We don't need her charity."

"Ferelden could use all the help it could get right now," Anders said.

Fenris settled back down to his side, removing Ser Pounce-a-lot from his cloak and opened his pack instead for the cat to curl up.

"Not from that country," Haras growled. "Ferelden can stand on her own feet. We fought against a Blight on our own. We kicked those bastards out!"

"Would you shut up?" Fenris snapped. The others had started looking around at Haras, some were nodding their heads. Crowd mentality was a dangerous thing, and Fenris knew they couldn't afford this kind of dissention. Not when Vovanis's words still rang so clearly in his mind.

Haras was about to answer when the back of the cart opened. Two Denerim soldiers climbed aboard and the argument fell by the wayside as their papers were checked.

"Is Empress Celene here?" Anders asked, handing his papers over.

The soldier read through them. "Ain't none of my business what royalty comes and goes. Just my job to keep the assassins out. Looks good." He handed them back to Anders.

"That's a yes," Anders said to Fenris in an undertone.

Fenris tucked his papers back into his bag, his fingers brushing over a small sealed clay pot. He frowned, remembering the brief conversation he had with Cousland about it as they said their goodbyes.

_"Anders can heal anyone, but he never looks after himself anymore. Not since Justice died. So you keep him safe. Take this."_

The pot contained several pinches of ash from the urn. Fenris wasn't sure if he believed the story they told of how the ashes revived Arl Eamon. But Cousland was right. Anders was more than a bit impulsive, and when it came to healing, he always put himself last. He hoped he would never have to use them, fable or no. He hadn't yet told Anders he had them, and wasn't sure why he kept it a secret. Anders certainly wouldn't care if he had them, but perhaps he would find it silly or unnecessary. If it came to it though, Fenris decided he would do anything to save Anders' life, including sprinkling magical life-giving dust on him. And as they moved under the portcullises into the bustling city, Fenris thought he understood how Anders must have felt when it came to losing Justice.

He followed Anders out of the cart along with the others, the streets too narrow for the oxen to navigate too far into the city. They were to report to the palace first for room and work assignments, he knew that much. As they walked the alleys, Fenris couldn't help but look everywhere. It reminded him of Minrathous, though less intimidating. There were merchants calling out their wares, pot shops with delicious stews, their scent wafting across the lanes. But no signs of magic, at least not outwardly. The mages he traveled with all had staves, and while the citizens of Denerim seemed to respect the armor and symbol of the Church, there was no fear like there had been in Minrathous.

The street they were on opened to a large marketplace, with many other streets spiraling off of it like the hub of a large wheel. To their left, Fenris saw the chantry, with its eerie sunburst adorning the double doors. No one else in their party gave it a second glance, and Anders pointedly looked in the opposite direction. Fenris was eager to visit the shops and stalls, and hoped there would be time later to explore.

Snow covered the rooftops, but very little of it had stuck to the cobblestone streets, or had been shoveled away already. Beyond the market square, they walked under another set of portcullises and up a large, newly built staircase. Half the buildings were old, slightly crumbling tan brick while the other half was granite stone, grey and sturdy-looking. It was fascinating to see the old juxtaposed with the new, and nothing like Minrathous where thousands-year old buildings were held up by magical enchantments. It made Fenris's markings ache just to think about them.

The palace itself wasn't that impressive he thought as they had their papers checked once again at the gates. Stone and wood like any other building in this country, built for function as a fortress rather than aesthetics. In Antiva, he saw many buildings that had beautiful, large stained glass windows, walls that had gorgeous frescos painted on them, but could likely have been knocked down with one well-placed ballista missile. There was a fluttering of wings and several in their party looked up to see half a dozen birds flitting through the rafters.

"At least it's not dragons," Anders muttered, causing Fenris to smile slightly.

They were assigned to their rooms which were in the servants' wing and little more than large walk-in closets. At first glance it looked as if the beds against the far wall were bunk beds, but Fenris noticed they were held up by diagonal chains attached to the brick. Frowning, he approached, lifting the thin wooden pallet, the flimsy mattress folding up toward the wall. It certainly saved on space, but the whole thing reminded him of-

"It's like a prison cell. How charming," Anders said, setting his pack on the rickety dresser.

"At least we are alone," Fenris said, toeing the threadbare rug.

"Hm. Move just a second," Anders said, waving him away.

Fenris backed up against the wall which wasn't very far out of the way, considering how small the room was. Anders pulled the thin mattresses off their frames, bedding and all, then folded the frames against the wall, securing them with a third chain. Fenris arched an eyebrow, watching curiously as Anders piled mattresses and blankets together, pulled out their extra bedrolls from their packs, and constructed a sort of giant cushion pile.

"Much more comfortable, I would think," Anders said. "Too bad there's no fire though. Here's hoping it's not very drafty."

Fenris set his pack next to Anders' carefully and opened it to let Ser Pounce-a-lot out. The cat leapt nimbly to the floor, sniffed the corners of the room, then decided the pile of blankets and mattresses was good enough for him. He burrowed underneath a cover, curled up, and fell asleep.

"Lazy," Anders scoffed. "We'll need to report in with the others and get our assignment. Maker, you think they would give us a few hours to get-"

Fenris watched Anders wince, and a second later felt a presence behind him. Too late, two strong arms wrapped around his chest and lifted his feet from the ground. Reacting instinctively he threw his head back, catching his attacker in the face.

"AAH! FUCK!"

Fenris was dropped, landing in a crouch, he summersaulted away from his attacker and stood, spinning to meet the foe, placing himself between doorway and Anders, just in case. 

"…Hawke!?"

Hawke stood, bent slightly, hand at his nose which was dripping blood. He was swearing under his breath. "Fuck's sake, Fenris," he laughed. "I guess I should have known better."

"You really should have," Anders said, and Fenris could hear the eyeroll in his tone. He brushed past Fenris, pulling Hawke's hand away from his broken nose, healing it easily.

Hawke wiped his sleeve across his face, smearing the blood. Fenris watched Anders take a handkerchief from his pocket and clean him up, ignoring the slight lurch of jealousy in the pit of his stomach.

"Hell of a way to say hello," Hawke said, grinning now at Fenris.

"I hope you don't expect an apology," Fenris said, his tone deadpan.

"Getting into scrapes again, brother?"

Fenris took an involuntary step back as Bethany appeared in the doorway, tucking herself neatly under Hawke's arm, smiling up at him. Hawke shrugged and tugged on a strand of her hair. Fenris wished he could rid himself of the annoying fluttering in his chest, how her smile made him want to smile. It seemed the ridiculous adage of absence making the heart grow fonder wasn't so ridiculous. And when she extricated herself from her brother, hugging Anders, he swallowed away a nervous lump in his throat. Slim arms wrapped around his neck next, and he carefully placed a hand on the small of her back.

"How are you?" she asked, her breath tickling his ear as she pulled back. "How was your mission?"

"Fairly dull," Fenris managed.

"Oh right, if you call talking dragons 'dull'," Anders replied airily.

"Dragons?" Hawke asked, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. His expression was rapt interest.

"Sounds awfully dangerous," Bethany said, frowning concernedly.

"Anders held his own against three," Fenris said, remembering the fight. He also remembered the mage's blood on his hands, the panic he felt as he attempted to hold him together. A blush rose in Anders' cheeks and he shrugged, but Fenris felt the pleased gratitude through their link.

They relayed the story to Hawke and Bethany on the way to the courtyard. 

"No wonder Cousland only requested one team," Hawke mused. "Kind of a top secret Grey Wardens only thing. I wonder what he's going to use the ashes for."

"No idea," Anders admitted. "But the only way to find out is to become a Warden and I never really had the desire to tie myself down to yet another organization."

"No, you leave the tying down to other people," Hawke said suggestively.

Bethany elbowed him in the ribs. "You're so crude."

Fenris caught the look Anders gave Hawke over Bethany's head and felt that same flare of jealousy again. It was irrational and irritating. Anders was his partner, not his ward. Yet, the idea of someone else tying him up - for sexual purposes or otherwise - angered him. If anyone were to hurt him outside of perhaps sparring or lessons, Fenris wasn't sure he would have been able to forgive that.

The yard was rife with Crusaders and their mages receiving assignments for the day. Shifting rock, moving beams and boards, patching up the fortress tower. Fenris was slightly relieved that any search and rescue missions were a long time over. Digging through rubble to find bodies was not something he would have looked forward to. As they climbed higher in the tower, Anders fell silent, letting the others with them carry the conversation. Fenris felt an oppressive cloud of melancholy settle over him, and when they stopped for a quick break, he quietly took Anders by the hand and led him to an empty corridor.

Anders said nothing, leaning against the wall, hands rubbing idly at his face. Fenris waited, and after a moment, Anders spoke. "This is where it happened," he whispered. "Maker, I thought I could handle it. Just turn up those stairs, a few flights up, that's where…"

Fenris reached up, touching the amulet around Anders' neck. He felt the hesitation, the sadness and the frustration, and a second later, Anders' fingers were covering his own. "I'm sorry." There wasn't anything else he could have said. But he felt the gratitude regardless.

"Come with me?"

Fenris nodded and let Anders lead him by the hand up the slightly crumbling staircase. The chilly winter air whipped at their clothing as they left the shelter of the tower. The snow was cleared, the tan stones glistening with a thin layer of ice. Anders stepped carefully, frowning as he glanced around.

"I can't… I can't remember where."

He slumped to his knees and Fenris was there beside him in an instant, wrapping his arms around him, lips pressed to his temple.

"That's awful, Fenris," Anders said, sounding tired. "I can't remember. I remember where the archdemon fell. Just over there," he gestured. "But Justice. I held him as he died and I can't remember."

"It's for the best," Fenris insisted, shifting in front of him. He took him by the wrists, dragging his hands away from his face. "You need to move forward. The past contains memories, good and bad, but you cannot dwell on either."

Anders looked up at him, amber eyes despairing. "Some days I think I'm fine. No. I _am_ fine," he insisted. "And then it comes crashing down again and I remember. Either a dream or… or I can smell him. The soap he used to wash his clothing. Or I can hear his voice."

"You're going to drive yourself mad. Considering you're halfway there already, you haven't got much sanity left." It was a barb, a joke meant to rankle, and it worked.

Anders laughed, pulling his wrists from Fenris's grasp. He palmed his chest, thumbs brushing against his collar bone. "You're just worried I'm going to take you with me."

"That is a definite concern," Fenris agreed. "I prefer not to be in the company of a mad mage, yet here I am: on the precipice of lunacy, trying to offer comfort."

"It helps," Anders assured him. "To have something solid to hold onto in the middle of all this. And we're not even at war anymore."

"I believe that being alone is the most terrifying thing I've experienced," Fenris confirmed. The thought of being separated now from Anders, either because the mage decided he would be better off elsewhere or a forced reassignment, it wasn't one he would entertain.

"I don't want to be alone anymore," Anders whispered.

Before Fenris could respond, Anders' mouth was on his, the kiss burning hot despite the chilling cold of the terrace. Hands at his chest clenched, fisting his tunic and he froze, unsure what to do. Thousands of thoughts whirled through his mind, none of them coherent. A tongue was at his lips and unconsciously he parted them, feeling the quiet moan from Anders as it slid inside. He stopped thinking, only felt. Warm hands moved from his chest to his neck, thumbs against his jaw, fingers moving into his hair now, clutching at him. Anders shifted, a knee sliding between Fenris's as they kissed, pressed flushed together. It ended slowly, Anders pulling away first, panting slightly, releasing him.

Fenris's world spun fast, heart beating quickly. The kiss felt natural, normal. But also arousing. Confusing. He had no qualms about kissing other men, though his experience all around was rather limited, and the idea that he'd kissed a mage…

_He is not Danarius._

No. Not Danarius. But Anders. Infuriating, but not evil. Not out for power and personal gain. Just a man who wore his heart on his sleeve, despite everything he'd been through. He spoke of his passion, of mage rights, of justice and of righteousness. He was a good person, a capable partner. Was the kiss a moment of weakness?

"Say something," Anders said, not looking at him.

"I am unsure of what to say," Fenris admitted.

Anders pressed a palm to Fenris's chest, feeling his quickened heartbeat. "Whatever you feel."

Fenris said the first thing that came to mind. "Scared," he admitted, frowning. To be scared, to have that weakness, it was just something the magisters used to prey upon their slaves. Would Anders take advantage?

"Me too."

Of course he wouldn't. "Perhaps," Fenris started carefully, "we should discuss it at a later time. We've work to do."

"Of course," Anders said quietly. He stood, helping Fenris to his feet.

They moved back inside, out of the freezing cold, Fenris unable to discern the emotions surging across their bond. Apprehension? Nervousness? He took Anders' hand, squeezed reassuringly, and returned to wall he'd been working on prior to their break. There would be time to think about the odd shift in their relationship later.

-

Anders, as it turned out, knew the castle better than Fenris. Fenris lost sight of him after dinner and tracked him through their bond, winding through corridors and up stairways. He wasn't looking forward to having what would definitely be an awkward conversation, but they needed to speak. The idea of kissing him again wasn't unwelcome. In fact, he felt the same slight fluttering in his chest when he thought about Bethany. It was confusing, but he was sure that Anders felt similarly. A romantic relationship was the last thing he'd had on his mind upon joining the Crusaders, but the thought of moving forward with Anders admittedly made him somewhat excited.

He turned the corner, stopping at the top of the hall. Anders was where he felt he would be, but he wasn't alone. A serving girl was leaning against the wall, blushing and giggling as Anders leaned in to whisper in her ear. There was no jealousy that Fenris felt, just a swirl of confusion and a stab of frustration. Had Fenris somehow misinterpreted their kiss? It was far from chaste, the way Anders clung to him. Had he just been desperate? Sad? Missing Justice? Had he _used_ Fenris to push past those feelings?

He watched Anders nuzzle her cheek before he glanced up slowly, meeting Fenris's gaze. The girl asked him something, and Anders shook his head before stepping away. She followed his eyes up toward Fenris, blushed, and hurried away. Fenris frowned, waiting at the mouth of the corridor as Anders walked toward him.

"I… ah. Well," Anders breathed.

"Hm."

The silence stretched. Fenris sighed. He was tired from the day's work, and feeling restless now.

"I do have other things I could be doing than standing here, staring at you," Fenris said, the words coming out more harshly than he'd intended.

Anders scowled. "Far be it from me to keep you from your important business, then."

"Mage, I did not-"

"It was a bad idea."

Fenris raised an eyebrow, an unexpected sinking feeling in his stomach. He crossed his arms. "I'm sorry?"

"Getting involved. I've been thinking. It's a bad idea. Justice was right. Mages and their Crusaders. We have a duty to perform. Our focus should be on that."

But Fenris knew Anders well enough now to hear the hesitance in his voice. He felt something, but was pushing him away. Even without their link, he thought it would be easy to see. Foolish, sentimental mage. Emotions were a weakness. Danarius taught him that. And if that's what Anders wanted, then it made things all very painfully simple. He just wished the mage had never kissed him, never opened that door. Maybe then he wouldn't be feeling so wretched now.

"Very well."

Whatever Anders was expecting Fenris to say, the surprised look on his face revealed that wasn't it. "Oh… Well. Well, good, then. I'm glad you agree."

"I'm going out. Do not wait up."

Anders didn't call after him as he turned on his heel, and Fenris was glad for that. He didn't need to be swept up in some dramatic show. A part of him was disappointed. He wasn't sure where the conversation would have led them. But the kiss was extremely pleasant. He missed the touch of another and the last few weeks being with Anders, he forgot what it was like to feel paranoid and angry. He'd found a purpose with the Crusaders. He was reminded of the Fog Warriors, of the woman he'd been with, the comfort he felt with them all. How he'd lost it. The twisting in his gut then was eerily similar to how he felt now.

Their link was blissfully silent and he realized Anders was shielding his feelings from him. _Bloody stupid mage,_ he thought, leaving the palace and crossing the empty market square. Two guards standing on either side of a gate gave him a look, their eyes stopping on his pointed ears, but said nothing as he crossed into the alienage. He'd asked Hawke earlier where it was, and it was impossible to see the damage done to it from their station in Fort Drakon. His plan had been to ask Anders to accompany him to look at the damage, maybe even have a conversation with some of the inhabitants. He pushed Anders from his mind for now, burying his hurt feelings deeply as he passed over a recently repaired bridge.

The buildings here grew close together, old and crumbling. The scent of garbage permeated the air, and Fenris could see the litter in the streets poking up through the layer of dirty snow. The vhenedahl tree sprouted from the middle of the square, much younger and less impressive than any others he'd seen. But healthier somehow. He approached, touching it reverently, a link to a lost past. He never fancied himself a part of the culture, having been raised with humans and scorned by other elves who saw him as privileged for his status in Danarius's household. The sound of boots on snow behind him interrupted his thoughts and he turned, ready to fight.

"Bethany?"

She stood a few feet away, dressed in a heavy cloak, her fur-lined hood pulled up around her face. Her breath escaped in white puffs as she smiled, approaching slowly. "I thought I saw you come this way," she said. "Are you all right?"

Fenris frowned, settling on a rickety bench under the tree. "I suppose." He wasn't sure if he wanted to discuss what had happened between himself and Anders with her. After all, he'd been harboring some rather complicated feelings for her as well.

She gestured questioningly to the spot next to him and Fenris slid over to let her sit down. "It's something to do with Anders," she said gently. "Garrett might not have noticed, but you've been acting oddly since this afternoon. And he seems more withdrawn. Did something happen?"

"We had a disagreement. An argument, I suppose. Or a fight." All three of those words seemed inadequate somehow to describe what happened. "We've come to something of a reconciliation and I'm sure things will be fine." Though he _wasn't_ sure. This didn't feel like their normal arguments.

"Oh. I'm sorry," she said, touching his hand.

Her hands were bare, and in his haste, he'd forgotten his gloves as well. Her fingers were warm over his, his lyrium brands lighting dimly at the contact. The magic in her skin pulled at them dully, an ache surging through them. Snow started to fall slowly, flakes dropping to his cloak and dissolving into the fabric. The night was dark and quiet save for a few dogs barking somewhere off in the distance. He looked up at her, her head tilted slightly, face etched with concern. She looked so pretty, he thought, what little moonlight there was illuminating her beauty.

He hesitated, heart beating faster, but leaned in toward her. His lips had just barely brushed hers when she pulled back abruptly, sliding her hand off his as she moved away. He immediately dropped his gaze, staring at his own hand which was cold now, splayed on the bench between them.

"My apologies," he muttered.

_Fool,_ he berated himself.

"Fenris, I'm sorry," she said earnestly. "I didn't mean to… It's just… I don't feel that way toward you. I'm sorry," she repeated.

"I understand," he said, his tone flat. He swallowed, desperately trying to reign in his emotions. The last thing he needed was Anders to feel him in distress over something like this and come running. He sat up straight, looking away from her, toward the main thoroughfare of the alienage.

She stood, moving in front of him, and he stared down at her boots. "You shouldn't stay out too long. It's cold. You'll catch your death."

"Mm."

He thought he heard her sigh. "Good night, Fenris. I hope you work things out with Anders soon."

He listened to her retreat before looking up. The road was empty. Maybe she was right. It was cold out; he should return to the palace and… and what? Go to his shared room with Anders? Things had changed between them, possibly irreparably. Maybe it wasn't too late to inquire about a new mage. Or perhaps he could be like Dagna and Karl and simply stay in the Circle.

"Stop being stupid," he muttered, standing, pulling his cloak around himself as he started down the main road.

There would be a few rough, awkward days and he and Anders would move past it. Hopefully Bethany wouldn't say anything to Hawke or anyone else about his failed attempt to romance her. Was this how Dagna had felt when he turned her down? She'd gotten over it in a few days and when they last spoke, everything seemed completely normal between them. He would have to write to her, just to let her know he was thinking of her. She was one of the only friends he had left, so it felt. Or at least, one of the only ones who was still currently speaking to him.

There were no lit lanterns over the doors like in the other parts of Denerim, leaving the streets difficult to navigate. He'd originally intended to follow the same road out that he'd taken in, slightly disappointed that he wasn't able to speak with any of the elves here about their current situation. He would have to come back in the morning. In his position, he might be able to convince his fellows to move the reconstruction efforts to the alienage. At the very least, Anders would understand. Wouldn't he? Instinctively, Fenris touched the cuff on his wrist. Their connection was still there, but the usual ebb and flow of emotions was muted. Anders was still trying to keep his feelings hidden.

_So be it,_ Fenris thought.

He took what he thought was the correct road only to find himself in a dead end alley. Perfect for an ambush. But that was likely paranoia borne from years of running and hiding. With a sigh he turned and stopped short. An elven child stood before him, wrapped in a threadbare cloak, no shoes, her face smudged with dirt. He frowned, hand hovering near the handle of his dagger he had hidden inside his own cloak.

"You're not from this alienage," she said, the wind nearly drowning out her soft voice. "The one with the markings. I was told to give this to you."

She held out both her hands. Through the darkness he saw what looked like a knife in her small outstretched palms.

"Who told you?" Every nerve in his body told him this was a setup, a trap. He would walk toward the girl and armored men would leap out and attack him.

"I did."

Fenris's eyes widened as a silhouette stepped into the alley. He didn't need to see the face to know the voice. How many times had he heard his master call his name? Issue an order? Praise him? Even now, he fought against the instinct that demanded he drop to his knees and lower his eyes. He took an involuntary step back though, fear coursing through his veins. He wanted to run. He wanted to tear this man's throat out. He did neither, frozen to the spot.

"It is good to see you again, Fenris," Danarius said in a strong, smooth tone. "Go and give the knife to him, little one, and you'll have your reward."

The girl hurried up to Fenris and thrust the dagger into his hands before returning to Danarius to take a shiny gold sovereign from him. Fenris examined the blade's hilt and the ornate sheath. Engraved in the gold was Danarius's house symbol, a serpentine dragon that twisted around, carved to look like a graceful dancer. Small black jewels glittered across the piece, giving the surface a rough texture. He looked up, taking another step back as Danarius moved closer. His back hit the door of an apartment and he had half a mind to break it down.

"A present, my pet," Danarius said. "If you come back with me now."

"I'm not a slave," Fenris hissed, his heart racing in fear.

Danarius reached up and Fenris knocked his hand away, markings flaring to light, dazzling brightly in the dark alley. "I think we both know that's not true," Danarius soothed. "You might have changed masters, but you still bow to a mage, do you not?" He seized Fenris by the wrist, long gnarled fingers grasping the silver cuff as he dragged him forward.

Fenris pulled away, twisting his hands to perform the technique that he'd learned that would rid Danarius of his magic, followed quickly by a smite to knock him back. Danarius faltered, head tilted, eyebrows raised. Fenris unsheathed the dagger, holding it up between them, ready to fight. Danarius laughed, pulling his quarterstaff from its place on his back.

"I see you've learned some new tricks. But that alone won't be enough to stop me."

Danarius brought the sharpened tip of the staff across his palm. Like a razor, made of pure silverite, it sliced through his flesh, and Fenris felt the pull of the foul magic as the blood dripped through Danarius's now closed fist. Three shades, dark and lumbering with wicked looking claws sprung up from the ground. They closed around him slowly, Fenris backing away again with nowhere to go. He would have to stand and fight, or give in. And that wasn't an option.

With a cry, he lunged at the first shade, plunging the dagger into its leathery hide. He wished he hadn't left his greatsword at the palace. With no other way to defend himself, he phased his entire body, bursting into a silvery white lyrium ghost. The shades reeled back away from the light and Fenris leapt to attack when Danarius spun his staff quickly overhead, sending a bolt of purple energy racing toward him. It caught him in the chest, knocking him off his feet. His brandings burned red hot with a searing, blinding pain. For seconds that felt like hours, he couldn't move, lying supine.

A shadow fell over him, Danarius smirking in the moonlight. "My little wolf. You thought I wouldn't come prepared?"

Fenris winced but could do nothing as Danarius covered his face with a cloth doused in a rancid smelling potion. He tried to struggle, the spell holding him firmly in place, and in seconds, as he breathed in the fumes, he slowly lost consciousness.


	18. Chapter 18

Anders watched Fenris retreat down the hall and let out a heavy sigh. He reached up, fingering the silver earring and contemplated removing it, but hesitated. That would definitely bring Fenris back to him, and he just wanted to be left alone for now. Removing the earring would be an overreaction; making a bad situation worse. He'd been struggling with his feelings for Fenris for some time now, and they came to a head atop Fort Drakon. All the emotions, the heartache he'd experienced after losing Justice, everything came rushing back to culminate in one searing kiss.

It scared him.

So he'd done what he usually did when he was scared. He ran. He found the closest, prettiest thing and convinced himself that having a one night quickie with her was a better idea than facing a difficult conversation with Fenris. He naively hoped Fenris would also realize that it was a bad idea, and they could simply fall back to the way things were before that afternoon. But he'd underestimated the entire situation. He'd underestimated Fenris and his feelings. Just how deep did they run?

A sick feeling forming in his stomach, he left the palace, crossing the empty market to the Gnawed Noble. It wasn't exactly his type of pub. His preferences tended to lean more toward poorly lit, less crowded venues with seedier patrons. True to its name, the Gnawed Noble was full of... well, noblemen. And women. Neither of whom gave him more than a second glance. He wore the robes of the Church, which marked him as a mage, and regardless of what the Church had done for Denerim, for Ferelden, no one wanted to be seen conversing with a mage voluntarily.

_It's as if we're all diseased,_ he thought bitterly, and ordered a drink.

He took his bottle of wine and a glass to a corner of the room and sat, pensive as he sipped. Things had been simpler before Fenris, though boring. The elf was a capable warrior and a damn good Crusader. He never complained about the assignment though it was horribly tedious. He trained daily and they worked well together. More than that, they communicated without thought. The feel of Fenris against him as they slept, a brush of his hand, a slight smile, it drove Anders insane. It was more than lust. With Cousland and Zevran it was lust. They were friends and damn good in bed. With Karl it was affection. Romantic. But with Fenris there was something more. Passion and fire.

He took a breath and closed his eyes, carefully walling off his feelings. Fenris was doing the same, it seemed. Their bond was muted, as if they were trying to talk to one another underwater. It felt choked, but he refrained from panicking. There was no reason for that. They were merely having a disagreement. Or an argument.

"Whatever," he muttered, topping his glass off.

Perhaps he could still fix this.

_It's not my responsibility to fix anything. Nothing is broken!_

He turned the wine glass in his hand, watching the deep red liquid swirl.

_He agreed with me. He agreed it wasn't a good idea._

Another voice, further back in his mind, scoffed at the desperate thought.

_He saw straight through your lies. You can't keep anything from him. You're too close. Your very souls are entwined._

Not that the jewelry could do that, so he thought. It was a powerful enchantment, but not even Sandal, with his master craftsmanship, could manage that. But what about Fenris's markings? His lyrium, the way they danced and sang whenever Anders drew close. None of the other mages had to contend with that sort of thing. And with his own ability to manipulate and control spirits, being so close to the lyrium brands day in and day out, had they somehow affected his connection with Fenris? They'd bonded much more quickly than any other pairing, at least to Anders' knowledge. He wished Karl was here as a sounding board, someone with whom he could postulate theories.

It was all too confusing, and his wine glass was empty again. He could hold his alcohol, and the bottle was just about half-full now. He contemplated the dregs before he poured another one out, staring at it for a moment, and then tipped it back. The tart, fruity flavor danced over his taste buds and he wished, just for a second, that he could share this with Fenris. It was stupid that they were avoiding one another. He should find him, talk to him, apologize and start over. Convince him to come to their bed, share another kiss and maybe more. To the Void with fear! Though, he reasoned, that might just have been the wine talking.

A feeling of regret that wasn't his own filled his chest. He closed his eyes and listened. Fenris was upset, extremely so. A cutting of loss and anguish, and anger. But not directed toward anyone, just at himself. Was he the cause of this? But the feelings were cut off abruptly, muted, diluted. Whatever he was feeling, whatever the cause was, he didn't want Anders to know. Anders partly felt as if he should respect his privacy, while another part wanted to demand what was wrong, angry that Fenris was shielding so much of his thoughts from him. But then, Anders was doing just the same thing, wasn't he? And another final, quieter part, ached for him.

He finished what was left in his glass, dropped a few coins on the table and, slightly dizzy, headed for the door. While he couldn't tell exactly what Fenris was feeling, couldn't pinpoint the origins of the seemingly random emotions, he could still sense him, knew which direction he'd gone. His gaze fell upon the alienage and he slowly started toward the gate, hanging back as a hooded figure hurried out. 

Bethany?

But why would she have gone after him?

Was she the cause of Fenris's distress?

He clenched his fists, tamping down the irrational anger that threatened to overtake him. Bethany was a friend, and she would never intentionally hurt Fenris. And the upset, the frustration was internalized in his companion. If Bethany had done something truly malicious, Anders thought he would have felt that. Fenris was angry with himself, not her. Instead of calling out, he started slowly toward the alienage, trying to work out what he would say to Fenris when he caught up with him.

The bridge into the alienage had been haphazardly repaired, and Anders tried not to think about what transpired here, before the archdemon attacked. There was no question as to why Fenris headed this way in the first place. He'd been vocal about his feelings toward the treatment of the elves during the Blight, everything that happened with Howe and Loghain. Anders sympathized; when he saw the way the Chantry's Circle still treated their mages… When he found Fenris, he would speak with him about it; maybe seek an audience with the king to talk about the conditions here. Anything that would get him back into Fenris's good graces.

"Maker," he breathed, pulling his hood up against the cold.

The idea of pairing mage with Crusader had, in its inception, been a groundbreaking idea. One that former templars and Chantry mages fought and paid for with their lives. But Anders wondered if maybe they got too close now. A simple disagreement shouldn't have affected him this much. He felt sick to his stomach, though that might just have been the cheap wine that roiled with his anxiety. How did Hawke handle it when Bethany was angry with him? Or when they didn't get along?

_He lets her walk over him._

The thought provoked a smirk. Bethany did have her brother eating from the palm of her hand. Perhaps they weren't the best example to compare when it came to himself and Fenris. In fact, he and Fenris were somewhat unique, their situation incomparable to the others in the Church. Maybe that was another reason Karl decided to match them. He knew they were capable of handling an odd solo mission with little to no training or briefing. And if he was completely honest with himself, he _enjoyed_ the prickly elf's company. He liked getting under his skin and forcing him to disagreement. Everyone else he engaged in debate either agreed with him or ignored him until he talked himself blue. But Fenris was the first in a long time who argued vehemently.

_Like Justice._

He let out a laugh in realization. It was true. Karl would use a gentle hand with him, coaxing him to a different way of thinking or to try to calm him down. Irving would pull rank to get what he wanted if Anders tried to argue. Hawke caved in, Bethany usually agreed with his points regardless. But Justice would sit and rebut every point just as passionately, or happily expand upon whatever ideas he put forth if he agreed with him. Fenris, he realized, was similar to Justice, and a perfect foil to his own personality. And Anders was absolutely taken with him.

"Stupid, bloody elf," he sighed.

A sharp stabbing of fear gripped him as he rounded a corner. His chest constricted, his stomach lurched and he reached out, gripping the wall of some shoddy apartment as his world spun. The muted sensation of their link disappeared in an instant, and the bond crystallized suddenly, as if they'd removed the jewelry and then put it back on, a flood of emotion. And at the top of that was panic. Adrenaline coursing through his nerves, he started to run, in a haze trying to figure out which way to go.

The alienage was a maze of dirty alleys and dead ends, broken buildings that had yet to be repaired. He called upon a small spell wisp spirit for light, following his link to Fenris the best he could through the labyrinthine streets. He felt pain, despair. Desperation. What was happening? An attack? Templars, perhaps? Nobles looking for a fun time in tormenting elves? He would have their heads for hurting Fenris, for causing him this distress. But there was something else, something that felt personal. Not a cold detachment of some random bandit attack, but something intimate.

"Fenris?!" he cried out, not caring about the late hour. He called for him again. No answer.

Torn, thinking he should go back to the palace for help, but knowing that if he lost the trail he might lose Fenris, and that wasn't something he was willing to do. He rounded another corner, immediately lifting his sleeve to cover his nose from the acrid scent of sulfur and blood. Demons. There was a struggle. He knelt, examining the ground. The wisp above him flickered and shuddered and he turned quickly, staff out and ready to attack. A small elven child squeaked in fear, eyes wide as she ducked into an alcove.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, standing, holding his staff parallel to the ground. "Come out. Did you see what happened here?"

The girl inched out, clutching her ragged cloak around herself. She nodded.

"Tell me," he demanded, though tried to keep the anger from his tone.

"He took the elf with the marks."

Anders licked his lips, a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Who?"

"The mage man from Tevinter."

_Tevinter._

Anders heard the girl say something else but it was just a blur of sound as he ran, letting his link with Fenris guide him. He knew it was foolish, running now, out of Denerim, the spell wisp racing to keep pace. If they were on horseback or in a carriage, what hope did he have to keep up with them? But he had to. He had no supplies with him, just a small coin purse and his staff. He should stop, think. Return to the palace, talk to the next in command about Fenris's disappearance. Get help from Hawke, even. Leave a note. But all rational thought flew his mind as fast as he ran, past confused guards and tired looking farmhands returning from a full day's work in the fields.

The only thought on his mind now was getting to Fenris.

-

_ Epilogue _

Four men sat around a large, circular wooden table, runes carved into the weathered surface. A dark-skinned Rivaini man surveyed the other three, one milky eye unseeing. His teeth gleamed perfectly white and straight, lips pulled back in a feral grin. The man to his right stood, long robes flowing behind him.

"I don't see why you're so pleased, Desidario," he said in crisp, formal Tevene.

Desidario watched, following him with his good eye as he stalked around the table, stopping just behind one of the other men, an overweight, balding man with a face that was at least a third mustache. Senator Brexio startled when the man placed one long-fingered hand on his shoulder. Out of the four there, Brexio was the lowest ranking in the senate, but held more land and tangible assets than the other three combined.

"At this rate, we won't have what we need to finish our task. And with Danarius running off to chase a slave-"

"Not just any slave," the fourth man spoke. His piercing violet eyes flicked nervously from Desidario, who nodded slightly, to the still-standing man. "Fenris is a walking lyrium deposit. His powers augment Danarius's. And the boy is trained in nearly every killing art." He sat back in his chair, his long legs stretching out in front of him as he stroked his goatee. "He's necessary."

Brexio breathed in relief when the hand left his shoulder, the man circling around the table now to stand in front of the one who addressed him.

"And you know this for a fact, Faustinus?"

Faustinus cleared his throat, sitting up straighter now as he spoke. "If you want to complete the ritual, yes. You need the blood of the dragon. Fenris is capable in seizing the boy."

Desidario snorted. "Hardly a boy anymore. A king now." He stood as well, not to be intimidated. "Unless you're moving forward with your plan, Titus."

Aurelian Titus smiled, licking his lips as he circled the table, coming face to face with Desidario. "It's already in motion. The boy will be ours, and Danarius can crawl back to Minrathous with his slave while we push forward."

Faustinus coughed, catching Brexio's eye. A ripple of discomfort coursed through the room. Titus turned his glare on them, a thin eyebrow arched appraisingly.

"This was Danarius's idea to begin with," Faustinus said, a little uncertain. "It's through his connections that we've been able to-"

"And who procured the descendant of dragons?" Titus demanded coolly.

"…You," Faustinus admitted begrudgingly.

Desidario scowled, tapping his fingertips against the table. "If your agents fail to capture the boy, then Fenris is our next best hope. Faustinus, speak with Danarius in the Fade and find his location. We'll send a company to meet them at the Nevarran border."

Faustinus nodded and stood, skirting his lanky form around Titus, glad to be out of the presence of the two formidable magisters. Desidario nodded to Brexio who left as well, using his staff as a walking stick as he went, the door clicking shut behind his girth. 

"Fools," Titus declared, eyes narrowed, glaring at the door.

Desidario frowned. "Not entirely. Brexio, perhaps. But his money and connections are necessary to our cause. And you'll not find a better expert in the Fade than Faustinus. Have patience, my friend."

A muscle in Titus's cheek twitched at the familiarity. He folded his arms, turning his glare on Desidario. "You'd best be right about this. The ritual will not be complete without the blood of the dragon."

Desidario gestured to another door and led him through. The scent of blood permeated the hall, at the end of which was another door made of iron with no discernable handle. Titus withdrew a dagger, slicing his palm and pressed it to the center. It slid into the wall, allowing them entrance. The room was high-ceilinged and dark, lit by hundreds of candles that surrounded a stone structure. Stalagmite-like talons branched up from the base and in its claws sat a large, blood-red sphere. Thin tubes snaked upwards toward a gold relief of an Ouroboros, where they punctured the skin of a skeletal-looking man which hung from the ceiling by chains.

"He won't survive much longer. I'm impressed he managed to hold on this long," Titus said, irritated.

"Have faith. If not in Danarius, then your own agents," Desidario replied, his voice quiet and soothing. "There is life yet in him."

The man moaned in his unconscious state as the sphere pulsed, draining yet more blood from him.

"The king will respond," Desidario said. "After all, he's a good man. And what good man would resist the chance to save his own father?"

The sounds of their quiet laughter echoed off the chamber walls, and as they left, the candles extinguished, leaving the man to darkness and dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TL;DR - Thanks everyone for your support. This work will be completed no later than December 31st, 2014, but expect infrequent updates as RL takes over.
> 
> -
> 
> Hello everyone!
> 
> Firstly let me thank you all for the outrageous amount of support I've gotten through the posting of this story. I really appreciate it. I have another part planned that will have more twists and turns, some extended universe characters as well as some original characters who've peppered my other stories - and more importantly (to those who want to see some romance!) some Anders/Fenris sexytimes!
> 
> For the personal part here. My awesome amazing wife and I just bought a house and the last 2-3 weeks have been so stressful on me to the point where I was getting physically ill over the stress. The situation has since been resolved and we'll be moving in the next 2 weeks or so. Due to this, updates on this story will be somewhat infrequent, for which I apologize wholeheartedly. However, I do not believe in posting abandoned fics so I promise you it will be completed no later than the end of the year. 
> 
> This has been a bit of an education for me, as I don't usually post things that aren't finished/in the editing stage. I will continue to write of course, but won't be posting as much unless it's this. Come the new year I hope to have a TON of Inquisition ideas and fics for you guys, since I most definitely will be playing it the day it comes out.
> 
> If you guys have any questions or just want to chat, catch me via email (tcregan@gmail.com) or twitter (@TCRegan5). And thank you so much again. You guys are amazing. <3


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